


Consideration

by pikachumaniac



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-03-12 13:13:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13548066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pikachumaniac/pseuds/pikachumaniac
Summary: “I want you to serve me,” the man whispers. “Serve me, as you did your dear Noctis.”He instinctively draws back, but gets nowhere with that iron grip locking him in place. All he can do is ask in horror, “Why? Why would you even want that?”Ardyn sighs dramatically. “I must admit that your loyalty intrigues me. It is rare to see such dedication. Why, all of my men abandoned me the moment the Crystal rejected me. But you, on the other hand, were willing sacrifice your life for your king. I’m curious how much further your loyalty will go.”In which Ardyn makes a proposal, and Ignis has no choice but to accept, for the sake of his king.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The story is set during the alternative ending for Episode Ignis. Please heed the warnings; while there will not be anything graphic, it is very clear what is happening.

**_/n. A vital element in the law of contracts.  Consideration is a benefit which is bargained for between the parties, and the essential reason for a party entering into a contract.  Consideration must be of value, and is exchanged for the performance or promise of performance by the other party._ **

* * *

Time stops.

Perhaps he should be worried by the fact that he is so _un_ worried by this most unnatural phenomenon, but then, it is not the first time. In fact, it is not even the first time in the past few moments. Time had stopped for him when he bartered away his life for the kings’ powers, and again when those powers proved unable to destroy an immortal. It had stopped once more when the others had arrived to witness his pitiable state, and most certainly when Noctis had held out a hand and begged the Crystal for strength. The Crystal had complied, but at the cost of his King, and the moment when Noct had stepped into its depths seemed to stretch on for a lifetime and beyond.

Except that eventually, time moved on. Until it did not.

Ignis blinks. Even this smallest of gestures _hurts_ – the Crystal may have thought fit to return his life to him, but it had not been so generous as to heal the many wounds he had sustained in battle. They are not fatal, but they make moving a chore indeed.

Still, he is at least able to move. It is more than he could have reasonably expected when he had put on the Ring of the Lucii, and more than can be said of Gladio and Prompto, who are silent and still beside him.

Slowly, he eases himself from Gladio’s frozen grip, and staggers to his feet. He takes in a breath, the cold air scorching his tired lungs, and turns to face grim reality.

“Ardyn.”

“Boy.” Degrading as always, the immortal who would have been king. Ardyn Lucis Caelum brushes dust off his coat, and it burns that this is apparently the meager extent of the harm Ignis managed to inflict, even when he was willing to bargain all that he had to give. “You’re looking well.”

He doubts that very much, considering how his current state of being can best be described as a medley of pain. But he is not looking for sympathy, especially from the Accursed, so he ignores the false compliment and asks, “What are you doing?”

Unfortunately for him, two can play the game, and it is now Ardyn who ignores his words as the man looks around, almost inquisitively. “Can you feel it? The darkness will be coming now, without the Oracle or the Chosen King to hold it back. I do believe the end of days may soon be nigh.”

“As you planned.”

Ardyn shrugs, as if the apocalypse is nothing to be concerned about. “It is a start. Your dear Noctis is now ensconced in the Crystal, and who knows how long he will be there? One day or one year? Perhaps ten or twenty or more,” he muses, smiling darkly at Ignis. “I suppose after all these millennia, I can stand to wait a few more for my vengeance.”

“He will defeat you,” Ignis promises, but Ardyn only laughs in response as he takes a step towards the Crystal. Towards Noct. Ignis automatically moves to stand between them, gritting his teeth with each frustratingly slow step. He does not know if it is Ardyn’s magic or his wounds that slow him, but either way, he will not be denied. Not now.

The Accursed stops, the gesture less a concession and more an indulgence. “Your king just returned your life to you, and already you seek to throw it away? What a pathetic waste.”

Without thinking, Ignis summons his daggers. But before he can raise them, Ardyn is _there_ , next to him, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and pulling him even closer because as he is, _he is no threat_.

“And an even more pathetic display,” Ardyn purrs, before flinging him carelessly to the side. He lands with a pained grunt, the daggers slipping from his numb fingers before they fade. And just as before, when the MTs were holding him down and Ardyn was raising that dagger over Noct’s unconscious body, he can only watch as Ardyn returns his attention to the Crystal. But this time, there is no Ravus to distract the man as he walks, closer and closer, to where Noctis is trapped. He has no time to wallow in his uselessness though, as Ardyn asks almost casually, “What do you think would happen to your king if I was to destroy the Crystal with him still in it?”

It feels as if the earth itself has dropped out from beneath him. “You _can’t_.”

This denial does not slow the man’s predatory approach in the least. “I assure you, I most surely can.”

The certainty of those words makes him feel cold and small and so very helpless. He is not strong enough to fight back, but he cannot simply do nothing, so he says with no little desperation, “You need him. You need him to kill you.”

Ardyn stops. With time at a standstill, the world around them is silent, and when the Accursed finally turns to him, darkness runs down that ghostly white face like the foulest of tears. “What are you trying to say, _boy_?”

“You know exactly what I am saying,” he replies as he forces himself up onto his feet, even if he himself might not be so certain. But in a way, is this not the only explanation that makes sense? If Ardyn simply wanted to kill Noct, he could have done so many times over. Instead, he had specifically orchestrated a chain of events to bring Noct here, into the Crystal, permitting the Chosen King to receive the powers necessary to destroy the Accursed for good. Why would Ardyn do that, if vengeance was all he sought? “You may crave revenge, but who is to say that such a desire cannot align with other goals? You seek death, and not just of the bloodline – you seek it for _yourself_. Deny it if you like, but your actions reveal the truth already.”

For a moment, Ardyn looks as if he wants nothing more than to strike Ignis down where he stands, and he stiffens, preparing to summon his weapons again even though he knows it will be futile. If he could not leave a mark on the man with the kings’ powers at his disposal, what could he expect to do without?

But as quickly as it came, the murder drains out of Ardyn’s eyes, the bright gold pupils fading into amber. Still, it makes it no less disquieting when Ardyn looks him over like this is the first time he truly sees him.

“Suppose you are right,” Ardyn murmurs, as color returns to his cheeks, if not quite the pretense of humanity. “But with the darkness taking over, how long do you expect this world to last before the daemons consume it? If death was what I wanted, then I hardly need the Chosen King for that.”

“What if you’re wrong?” he asks. “You would risk being the king of ashes?”

Ardyn looks away, staring at the Crystal with an unreadable expression, before turning back to Ignis. “I think the more interesting question is whether _you_ would be willing to take that risk.”

“Me?” He is so taken aback that he does not think to move away when Ardyn comes to him until it is too late, the man so close that he must crane his neck to maintain eye contact. “I seek neither the end of the world or of my king. I fail to see what any of this has to do with me.”

He has not even finished speaking before he knows that it is a lie, and a poor one at that. Ignis holds no delusions; the fact that he is not frozen like Gladio or Prompto has nothing to do with his own strength. If anything, he is weaker than them, so easily manipulated into a situation that few would allow themselves to be wrapped up in to begin with. He had proven it already when he played along with Ardyn’s offer to go with him, and even though that foolish decision had nearly (well, perhaps not _nearly_ ) gotten him killed, here he is, allowing himself to be manipulated once again. Because for whatever reason, it is Ardyn’s will that he be a part of this, and he cannot for the life of him figure out why that is.

Or perhaps it is because he simply does not _want_ to know. But willful ignorance has never been his preference, so he asks, “What do you want?”

His voice is small, but to his credit, Ardyn does not mock him for his weakness. Instead, the man reaches a hand down to sweep aside the hair that has fallen into his eyes, before venturing over to the left side of his face, where the flames of the Ring had licked across his face. That, at least, the Crystal had mended, although he can almost feel the other man contemplating whether to undo all of that good work by digging sharp nails into the smooth skin. Not yet, at least, as the hand strokes down his cheek, before Ardyn seizes his chin, pulling him close.

“I want you to serve me,” the man whispers. “Serve me, as you did your dear Noctis.”

He instinctively draws back, but gets nowhere with that iron grip locking him in place. All he can do is ask in horror, “Why? Why would you even want that?”

Ardyn sighs dramatically. “I must admit that your loyalty intrigues me. It is rare to see such dedication. Why, all of my men abandoned me the moment the Crystal rejected me. But you, on the other hand, were willing to risk…” he pauses, shaking his head, “-no, that gives you insufficient credit. You _sacrificed_ your life for your king. I’m curious how much further your loyalty will go.”

Ignis has no opportunity to ask what that is even supposed to _mean_ because Ardyn makes it painfully clear when his free hand ghosts across his hips, a promise that is unmistakable. Ignis’s face twists – from disgust, anger, **fear** , he has no idea – but it only makes Ardyn laugh.

It is wrong. Everything about this is _wrong_ , yet he finds himself asking, “And what will you give me in return?”

“Loyalty for loyalty’s sake?” Ardyn tries laughingly. But the laughter dies quickly, as the man continues with deadly seriousness, “How about this then? As long as you serve me, I will not touch the Crystal. And therefore, as long as your king stays all nicely tucked away in it, I will not harm him.”

“And after?”

Ardyn’s grin is deadly. “After the Chosen King returns, we will go our separate ways, and permit destiny to play out as it will.”

With that, the terms are set. Ardyn will receive his services, and he will ensure Noct’s safety from the man. He does not need years of training to realize that the bargain is a poor one indeed. The immortal has as much incentive as he does to keep Noct alive, so really, Ardyn is not giving up very much at all. But at the same time, Ignis cannot forget the look on Ardyn’s face when he had been staring down at Noct, knife in hand, clearly conflicted about whether to run him through with the blade. Logic said no, but emotions were hard to ignore, especially for an immortal who had spent so long waiting already. That volatile wavering between what had to be done and what he _wanted_ in that moment makes it impossible to be certain that Ardyn will have the patience to wait yet again, rather than simply reaching into the Crystal to tear Noct out, before tearing him to pieces.

It may not be a significant risk, certainly, but it _is_ a risk, as Ardyn had so helpfully pointed out. And any risk is too great, when it comes to his king.

“So. Do we have an agreement?”

Ignis closes his eyes. He knows what he must do, but following through is a different matter entirely, especially when the hand on his chin lets go, snaking downwards to join its compatriot and causing his breath to hitch as they threaten to become more than mere implication. Ardyn is clearly enjoying making this decision as painful as it can possibly be.

It is that knowledge, paradoxically, that finally lends him the strength to follow through on another promise he made what feels like a lifetime ago.

_Please, take care of my son._

Ignis pulls away, and this time, Ardyn permits him. The immortal’s eyes watch covetously as Ignis attempts to compose himself so that he can face the man properly. It is so much harder than before because then, at least, he was preparing to fight back. Now, he must steel himself to give in.

But even as he acts, he waits. He waits for Prompto to ask him not to do this, for Gladio to _make_ him stop. He waits for the Oracle to take mercy and intervene again, for the Astrals to strike him down for considering such blasphemy, and for the ancient Kings to collect on the blood price they had been so rudely deprived of. He waits for someone – _anyone_ – to stop him from selling himself to the enemy.

But in the end, there is only Ardyn and himself, and a contract that waits to be forged between them.

Himself, for Noct.

Everything, for his king.

There was never any choice to be made.

He reaches out his hand, as he had done so many years ago to a young boy who even then, he knew he would do anything for. Ardyn is not that boy, and the hand that takes his is cold and possessive, applying unnecessary force. He nearly flinches away when Ardyn’s other hand takes his as well, the gesture so like Noct’s and yet so _wrong_ that it hurts like a physical wound.

“We have an agreement,” Ardyn pronounces, but there is no cruelty in the words. Instead, each word is soft and matter-of-fact, which only makes them seem more a condemnation.

And then, because his new master is still an absolute bastard, time starts before those words have even completely registered. Ignis barely has time to turn and see Prompto’s open-mouthed panic and the familiar burst of magic as Gladio summons a greatsword before the darkness closes around him, leaving him to face the consequences of his actions alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ardyn grins, with little humor. “I dare say, martyrdom suits you well. It does wonders for your complexion.”_
> 
> _He reddens at that, which was no doubt Ardyn’s intention as the man chuckles to himself. Well, at least someone is amused. “I will keep that in mind.” He decides there is no need to specify which of those comments he is referring to._
> 
> _“See that you do.”_

The darkness is all-encompassing, suffocating in its embrace. Ignis has no idea whether it lasts a second, a day, or an eternity, all sense of time shattered when he suddenly finds himself stumbling into a different type of darkness altogether.

At some point Ardyn must have released him, for the man stands a few feet away, admiring the view. He turns to Ignis with a smile, before throwing his arms up like a circus ringmaster and proclaiming brightly, “Home sweet home.”

He recognizes this place. How could he not, when he spent the vast majority of his life learning every square inch of it? The traffic flow of the streets, the characteristics of each neighborhood, the layout of an entire city – even without the bustling crowds, he knows this place as surely as he knows himself.

_Insomnia_.

It takes everything in him not to recoil at the sight. This is his _home_ , and it is now a ruin, the busy streets so empty of life that all that can be heard is the wind whistling between the abandoned buildings. Broken rubble, machinery, and bones litter the courtyard that they stand in, and behind him, the Citadel looms high, a grandiose gravestone to a city that once teemed with humanity. Now, there is nothing but death.

“So,” Ardyn says, a gleam in his eyes. “What do you think?”

“I-” he swallows hard, pushing down his true feelings because he need not give Ardyn any more ammunition with which to torment him – he has given plenty as it is. “I thought the Empire sent troops here to keep the peace.”

The words leave a sour taste in his mouth, but not nearly as much as Ardyn’s mocking laugh. “My, you are droll. Still, to your point, I suppose some of those men may still be around. Although I doubt they could still be called _men_.”

As if on cue, the ground begins to shudder. Ignis is painfully familiar with this, that moment when the daemons crawl from the earth to raise merry hell. Soon they will overrun the city, and this courtyard will not be exempt from their presence.

Ardyn seems unconcerned though, turning on his heel and striding through the ruins towards the Citadel. Ignis spares a look back at his city, before asking, “Why here?”

“Because it should have been mine,” Ardyn replies, and though his back is to Ignis, his hunger is unmistakable as he stares at the palace that he would have ruled from had he had not been rejected by the Crystal. Ignis nearly shudders at the thought of this man as king; no doubt he would never have lived to see that day, the entire kingdom a pile of corpses long before his birth.

Not so different from what it is now, really. “So you would prefer destroy the place like a petulant child, and rule over nothing?”

Ardyn pauses, although he does not look back. “Do you always speak to your king like that?”

Yes, actually he does. He closes his eyes, imagining Noct’s angry expression before likely withdrawing into himself to sulk. But it would never last long because Noct knew his duty, and he knew when Ignis was right, even if he did not like to hear it. For all his faults, Noctis had never shied away from the truth, and faced it head on.

This man, on the other hand, would rather burn the world to the ground than be subject to its rules.

Again, he keeps his thought to himself, instead saying flatly, “You are not my king. I entered into this contract _for_ my king.”

“You do enjoy your semantics, boy.” Ardyn waves a hand lazily, like he is brushing off his words as nothing more than an irritating fly. “You swore to serve me, did you not? What better way to describe our relationship than as a king and his vassal?”

His hands clench into fists as he stares stonily at the Accursed’s back. A captor and his prisoner, perhaps. A master and his slave, more like. Except that neither of those quite encapsulated the appalling truth of their status because like it or not, he has _agreed_ to this. He may have had little choice, but he had still been the one to hold out his hand, and allowed himself to be swept away. That element of free will makes this entire situation that much more perverse, and he is certain Ardyn revels in that fact.

He says nothing, and apparently satisfied, Ardyn continues to make his way up the steps towards the Citadel. Each step is measured but does nothing to hide his impatience, but when Ignis does not move to follow, he calls out, “I would hurry if I were you. The daemons are likely to tear you to shreds if you don’t.”

Such a fate might be preferable, but as if reading his mind, Ardyn adds almost as an afterthought, “And I would consider that to be a violation of our little arrangement.”

* * *

He catches up to Ardyn at the throne room, and it takes every ounce of will not to fall to his knees and vomit at the sight. Or the smell, for that matter.

Awful as the Crown City had been, it pales in comparison to Lucis’s seat of power. Whatever the level of fighting outside the palace, it must have been nothing compared to the slaughter _inside_ , given the number of corpses littering the marble floors. Clearly the duties of Niflheim’s “peacekeeping” troops had not extended to burying the dead, both friend and foe, and the stench of rotting bodies makes him dizzy.

Whether it is because Ardyn lacks the humanity to care or has witnessed ( _caused_ ) too much death to be affected, the man merely sweeps forward as if the bodies are nothing more than an unpleasant covering of dust. “Isn’t it magnificent?”

Ignis hopes dearly that Ardyn is referring to the architecture – which is magnificent, truly, as he recalls spending one of his few free days in the empty room, drinking in every exquisite detail – and not to the carnage around them. It is difficult to tell with the man. He focuses desperately on those details now, and replies neutrally, “It can use a good cleaning.”

“Are you offering?” At his incredulous look, Ardyn chuckles. “A simple jest, I assure you. Scrubbing the floors seems a waste of your many talents, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

The words sound innocent enough, yet they send a shudder down his spine as he remembers the brush of those broad hands against his waist. He braces himself for the worst, and hates the way he flinches when Ardyn brings his hands together in a loud clap that echoes through the lifeless room. “You cook for your king, do you not? I see no reason that same courtesy should not be extended to me. Perhaps you should start by preparing a meal?”

It is not a question, even if it arguably phrased as such. No, it is the first true order Ardyn has given. Lips pressed thin, Ignis nods and quickly takes his leave before the madman can comment or, worse, change his mind. The last thing he needs right now are those hands pulling him close.

Even as he flees, he wonders if he had been expected to bow before he left. He quickly banishes that thought from his mind; Ardyn has not ordered that of him, at least, and he is not about to offer anything for which he will not be given something of value for in return.

* * *

Ignis is halfway to his old quarters when he realizes that he is going the wrong way. If he is to cook anything, he will need to go elsewhere, as he had made sure to clean his rooms of all food before they had embarked on their journey.

He stops, chewing on his lip as he considers what to do. Most likely the only place with food would be the kitchens, assuming that the Empire had not completely ransacked its stores. Still, it is the best option he has, and with a sigh, he sets off for a new destination.

Unfortunately, this just leads to the next problem, which is that he has no idea where the kitchens are located. In his defense, he has never had reason to be in the servants’ area (although some had unwisely pointed out that _he_ was not much more than a servant, a glorified lap dog to the prince), and thus could not rely on muscle memory to make his way there. He had, however, memorized a map of the Citadel as a child; it was how he and Noct had been able to sneak out as children, albeit with a few wrong turns here and there, and more than a few close encounters with surprised guards unprepared for two small boys dashing about.

He makes a few wrong turns now as well, but the only encounters he has are with the dead.

Each body has been here too long for him to recognize it, and it is sickening to think that the decaying flesh he so gingerly steps past might be someone he once knew. A friendly guard, a bright-eyed maid, an absent-minded librarian, or a fellow advisor – how many of them remain here, lost and forgotten? How many had died that day, and in the days that followed?

They had never been oblivious to the losses. Even on their long journey that twisted farther and farther away from the city they grew up in, they were keenly aware of what happened to their home. But it had never truly sunk in because they could not allow it to. Their lives were desperate enough already as they fled the drop ships that hunted them in the day and the daemons that stalked them in the night, and all would truly have been lost if they permitted themselves even a second to truly grieve. But now, with Noct trapped in the Crystal and himself trapped in this city of the dead, he has nothing to distract himself from the fact that the body he just walked by may very well be his uncle’s.

By the time he reaches the kitchens, it feels like every corpse he passed has risen up and walked with him. He feels no guilt, only sadness; perhaps he could have done something for them if he had remained during the treaty-signing, but he’d had his duty and orders from the king. And now he has new orders, although not from his king, so with a soft prayer for the dead, he turns his back on them and pushes open the doors.

He is not surprised that the kitchens are as gloomy as the rest of the palace, although thankfully empty of human carcasses. Ignis grimaces as he looks at the empty prep stations and cooktops, which are all covered by dust and Astrals know what else. Ardyn may not have ordered him to clean, but someone will have to make this place sanitary if he is to make anything edible. He heads for the sinks, grabbing various pots, pans, and utensils as he goes, and drops them into the sink with a loud clang before turning on the hot water. He nearly regrets it when the pipes began to groan, but fortunately what comes out of the faucet is not a hoard of cockroaches but water so hot that it is already steaming. He quickly locates dish soap and squeezes an entire bottle over the wretched mess, and lets the water keep running as he heads to the kitchen stores to see what is left.

The simple answer – not much. The sight there is even more demoralizing than the state of the kitchen. Most of the perishables have been taken, and the rest left to rot. There is still some dry foodstuffs and a few canned goods, but it would hardly make a proper meal, and-

His thoughts are cut off by a laugh, and it takes him more than a few moments to realize it is his _own_. The laugh is thin and breathy and tinged with just a touch of hysteria, but now that he has started, he is finding it wholly impossible to stop.

Logically, Ignis knows there is nothing to be laughing about. He is currently trapped in the ruins of his home, surrounded by the dead, bereft of friends and allies, and at the mercy of an immortal sociopath who has not been subtle in what he intends. Then there is the fact that his king is trapped in a Crystal in order to gain the power necessary to sacrifice himself for a world that may not be worth saving, at least not at that cost. Yet somehow, in the midst of all that despair and madness, he still manages to stand around wondering how he is supposed to make a nutritious meal.

The question is so mundane that it is absurd, completely out-of-touch with the harsh reality that he finds himself in. Yet he clings to it because it is the only way he knows how to cope. Focusing on the everyday tasks like cooking and sewing loose buttons and making sure they woke up at a reasonable hour (a herculean task, for sure) may have seemed inane when they were fighting for their lives, but it allowed him some measure of control during a time when so much was out of theirs. It was especially important for someone like him, who relied on order; while he was no longer able to schedule things down to the minute, he could at least maintain some semblance of normality over some aspect of their lives, and that calmed him in a way that he had never fully appreciated.

Until now, he thinks, as he pulls himself up from the floor. Honestly he does not even remember collapsing onto it. But he needs to pull himself together, both physically and mentally, and if that means focusing on how to make a meal from scraps, so be it.

Because like it or not, it might be the only way of maintaining his sanity, something he must do if he is to survive this and continue to fulfill his duty.

* * *

“None for yourself?” Ardyn asks when he sets out the dish. “Or should I be concerned about poison?”

Ignis’s mouth tightens, as he stares straight ahead at the portrait of a long-dead king who will, if fate has its way, be stabbing Noct through the chest. His anger at that prospect, however, is nothing compared to his contempt with the present, as he replies stiffly, “I did not know you wished for us to dine together.”

Ardyn grins, with little humor. “I dare say, martyrdom suits you well. It does wonders for your complexion.”

He reddens at that, which was no doubt Ardyn’s intention as the man chuckles to himself. Well, at least someone is amused. “I will keep that in mind.” He decides there is no need to specify _which_ of those comments he is referring to.

“See that you do.”

Awkward would be a kind way of describing the silence that follows, as Ardyn dines and Ignis considers how best to make his exit. None of his etiquette teachers had ever covered the appropriate way to escape a dinner with the immortal conqueror of one’s land, which is clearly a severe oversight on the part of his teachers. He will have to have a word with them, assuming any of them made it out of said conquering.

“Are your dinners always this quiet?”

Ignis has to suppress a sigh. Strange, that he can feel so irritated with someone who can literally order him to kill himself (or worse), but the man is acting more like a petulant child than a cursed being who is bringing about the apocalypse. It is almost like Noct, although he regrets that comparison the moment he makes it. To distract himself, he asks politely, “Do you have royal business you wish to discuss?”

“Is that all you used to discuss with your precious Noct?”

“No,” he replies shortly, bristling at Ardyn’s presumptuousness at using such a familiar term. The man has not earned the right, but he swallows his anger as they lapse into silence again. It does not last long though.

“This is your famed cooking?” Ardyn complains, throwing his silverware down. “It is barely worth eating.”

Ignis cannot stop himself from turning to glare at the immortal, feeling ridiculously indignant at the slight. “I did not have much to work with.”

“This is a palace.”

“A palace that _your_ soldiers saw fit to loot, and of what they did not take, much has rotted.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Ardyn waves him off. “Besides, they were not _my_ soldiers. I only sought to use them, just as you have allowed yourself to be used.”

He abruptly regrets all of his life choices, foremost of which being the decision _not_ to poison the Accursed just now. Granted, it almost certainly would not have been fatal, but the thought of Ardyn suffering from a nasty bout of food poisoning brings him more joy than it honestly should.

But while he has no doubt that Ardyn knows what is running through his mind, he decides one of them must act their age, so he says crisply, “If you are offering to pick up supplies, I will provide you with a list. Or if you prefer, I will get them myself-”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Ardyn cuts off, wagging a finger like he is lecturing a naughty schoolchild proposing to set a Behemoth on fire. “You are not getting away that easily.”

“All you would need to do is order me to come back.”

“True, but why risk it? Humans are so weak… why, you could be picked off by a daemon or monster at any moment,” Ardyn says, as if he is actually concerned about his well-being, rather than being the greatest threat that Ignis faces. The man taps his fingers on the heavy oak chair that should have been occupied by one far more worthy as he looks over his captive audience. “Besides, it takes time for trust to develop. You have proven yourself stupidly loyal, yes, but I do not think we have reached the point where I can send you off with nothing but a promise to bring you back.”

“You have far more than a promise,” he points out. “You have a contract.”

“… of course,” Ardyn acknowledges after the briefest of pauses. Before Ignis can begin to wonder the meaning of that, the immortal abruptly shoves his chair back, standing. “Enough of this. Give me your silly little list in the morning and I will bring you what you ask for. In return, I expect that whatever you make tomorrow night will be fitting for your king.”

“As you command,” Ignis replies, although Ardyn no longer seems to be listening, the man sweeping from the room as if he actually has someplace to be other than his palace full of nightmares.

* * *

For the first time in his life, Ignis is grateful for the lock on his door.

He had used it before, naturally, but there was a difference between keeping busybodies out and barricading himself _in_. The latter is very much the situation now, even though he knows that a lock will do nothing to keep Ardyn out. After all, the man would only have to order him to open the door, and he will.

He does not permit himself to linger on that thought. If he does, his legs will give out, and this time he is not certain he will have the strength to stand again. He pushes himself away from the door, stumbling like a chocobo chick first discovering its legs, but it is not as if anyone is around to witness his clumsiness.

Once he steadies himself, he permits himself to survey the mess of his old quarters. Like the rest of the palace, it had not escaped the Empire’s looting, although they had clearly decided that most of his possessions were not worth taking. The furniture is knocked over and his books are strewn across the floor, many a spine broken by armored feet trampling over them. He should be angry at this, but he is too tired to be angry, and besides, it seems such a trivial thing compared to what waits for him outside his rooms.

A part of him – a significant part – wants to ignore it all, crawl into bed and pull the covers over his head, and to pretend that none of this is happening. But that will accomplish nothing, so he forces himself to stoop down and pull his chair back up, before picking up the books. His movements are slow and laborious, bone-tired as he is, but needs must and right now, what he needs most is that semblance of normality, no matter how slight.

It does not take long. He’d never had much time for acquiring personal possessions, and of those most have little value except to himself. Most of the damage is concentrated at his desk, as if the Imperials had hoped that he would be foolish enough to keep state secrets in the drawers. He shakes his head as he gathers up the pens and papers, but stutters to a stop when his fingers brush against the velvet back of a picture frame.

His hands are shaking as he lifts up the frame, turning it over. The glass is cracked, no doubt from being carelessly knocked over, but it does nothing to obscure the figures beneath it. He has no recollection of when the picture was taken, but that was what had drawn him to it in the first place. There was no special event being celebrated, no formalities to maintain. It was just the four of them, casual and laidback in Noct’s apartment, Noct’s and Gladio’s attention glued to whatever video game they were playing and Ignis wedged between them, valiantly trying but mostly failing to explain a report to his prince. Prompto is in the corner, grinning at the camera as he captures a scene that at the time, seemed to happen _every day_ , but now feels like a lifetime ago.

He’s dizzy again, and perhaps he is being dramatic, but suddenly he is so _tired_. The picture is no more than a year old, but suddenly they all look like children to him, completely unaware of what is to come. Noct in the Crystal, being raised to be a sacrificial lamb, and who knows where Gladio and Prompto are now, and whether they were able to make their way out of Zegnautus Keep? As for himself… well, for the first time, he is glad to be alone because he does not want them to see him this way, and he most certainly does not want them to see whatever Ardyn has planned.

Exhausted as he is, he still takes the time to set the frame down on his desk. He cannot bear to look at it much longer though, so he turns and stumbles over to his bed, practically falling on top of the covers, still fully dressed.

His head is barely on the pillow before he passes out, too tired to do anything but let the darkness once again swallow him up completely.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I am not your advisor,” he says firmly, as if what he thinks matters at all._
> 
> _“You are if I desire it,” Ardyn replies, a soft venom underlying the statement._
> 
> _“And what exactly do you need advice on?” he asks, the words sharp and bitter. “You seem to be doing a fine job ending the world on your own.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second to last scene of this chapter went through six increasingly frustrating rewrites over the past three weeks. I also ended up moving multiple scenes around, dumping over 6,000 words of final draft scenes, eliminating a few plot lines, modifying the timeline, and possibly wanting to set the entire story on fire.

Ignis wakes up to utter silence.

In all of his life, he has never experienced silence as complete and all-encompassing as this. Prior to the invasion, the Citadel had never been quiet, always buzzing with people going about their business, no matter what time of the day. Sometimes he had slept over at Noct’s apartment, but all the insulation in the world could not block out the traffic and life of the city around it. Even after they had left Insomnia, one could hardly call their lives quiet – not between Prompto’s sleep-talking and Gladio’s snoring, which everyone (except Gladio, of course, who complained bitterly about _their_ complaining) was convinced was loud enough to keep the daemons away, even if they hadn’t been sleeping at the havens.

This though, was different. This was the silence of death, although he does not recall his own death being this quiet. Perhaps the closest he had ever come to such silence was in the Royal Tombs, which always seemed quite unnaturally still considering how they held the bodies of mere mortal men.

This city is now also filled with the dead, and the only things that live are Ardyn and himself and the daemons that lurk just outside the palace. The vitality of two out of those three is debatable, and the third is very much at risk of immediate expiration.

But now is not the time for self-pity, so he grabs for his glasses, only to remember belatedly that they are long lost in the rubble of Altissia while his spare is stored with the rest of their camping gear. This time, he cannot help the pang of dismay, despite knowing that this is the last thing he should be worrying about. _It’s not as if you need them_ , he can hear Noct pointing out lazily, _you only wear them to make yourself look smart._

_One of us has to try_ , he had replied.

_Glad it’s not me then._

Ignis shakes his head of that memory, reluctant as he is to face the here and now. His glasses might not be there, but he most certainly is, and he glances at the clock on his bedside table, which remains miraculously intact. 10:02 a.m. Far later than he ever permits himself to sleep – barring a malicious disease or four, as that was the only combination that proved capable of keeping him from performing his duties – but that is not what is so disturbing. No, not only is it still ominously quiet, but it is _dark_ as well, the sun not yet rising despite this late hour.

The Starscourge is spreading. Noct is not even a day gone, and already the darkness is taking over the land.

He should be out there, he thinks distantly. He should be trying to do something about it. That’s what Noct would want, if he was here. But Noct is not here, and the fact that his king is not here is the reason _he_ is, as he remembers (like he could actually have forgotten) the bargain he had entered into with whom quite possibly is the literal devil.

_Ardyn_. Somehow Ignis doubts that the immortal will be content with him lazing in bed, although the man has given surprisingly few orders thus far. Still, he does not want to face the man in this state, and he already feels just a bit more vulnerable without his glasses ( _Ignis likes his world to be crystal-clear_ , he remembers Gladio commenting, not long before their world became a constant haze of ambiguity). Given how easily Ardyn manipulates any weakness, any amount of vulnerability is too much already, so he makes himself stand and heads to the bathroom.

Here, at least, the Empire’s soldiers did not find much to go through. Without hesitating, he turns on the hot water and strips down, before plunging into the shower without checking first if the water has even warmed up. It has, too much so because the water is _scalding_ , but it feels more like absolution than anything else as his skin reddens from the searing heat. It also forces him to move quickly, although he nearly falls over from prying the soap loose, as it has decided to meld into its surroundings since its last use. Now that would have been something – the king’s advisor, dead from a broken neck due to losing a battle with a bar of soap. Best to avoid that inscription on his tombstone, he thinks.

After he steps out of the shower, he pauses long enough to examine his reflection in the mirror. It is not a pretty sight. Ignis has never considered himself vain, but he does try to maintain his appearance, and the person staring back at him is… well, while not unrecognizable, certainly different from what he is used to. His hair falls limply in his face, and the bags under his eyes look rather like bruises, while the actual bruises and cuts across his pale skin stand out in all their lurid detail. Even looking past his more recent battle wounds, there is the small assortment of scars he has picked up from their journey – none nearly as dramatic as Gladio’s, certainly, but more reminders of what they have been through.

Insomnia is not the only thing that has changed since they had left it behind, that much is clear.

Ignis tears his gaze away from the mirror, instead rummaging through his drawers for gel. He might not be able to control much, but he can do something about this, and with efficient, practiced motions, he sweeps his hair up into his preferred style. There is nothing he can do about the shadows under his eyes (no glasses to cover _those_ up), but that is no reason to neglect the rest of his appearance.

He heads to the closet, which has been rifled through, but most of his clothing remains intact. It does not take him long to choose a dress shirt and suit, and by the time he is done with the buttons, the sun has finally deigned to rise. Ignis adjusts his suit jacket and takes in a deep breath, feeling the warmth from the light on his face. In that moment, he feels almost like himself again: calm, collected, and capable of facing whatever challenges are thrown his way.

Of course, it is but a lie. His confidence could wither with the dying sun, or shatter with a snap of the Accursed’s fingers. But for now, it is a pleasant lie, so he turns to the door and undoes the lock, and walks out into the empty halls.

* * *

“Well. This does seem much more appealing,” Ardyn says in an irritatingly satisfied tone as he examines the paella de pollo that Ignis places before him.

“Thank you,” Ignis replies without meaning it in the least, as he stands awkwardly at the man’s side, holding his own plate. Honestly, he has no idea what Ardyn expects him to do with it. Does he want him to taste test the food first and prove it is not poisoned? Or does he actually expect them to dine together? And if the latter, where is he required to sit? They are, after all, in the formal dining room, with its vast table fit for an entire royal court. Protocol would dictate that he sit quite a ways down, but there is only the two of them, so that feels absurd… although absurd is far preferable to having to be _close_ to the immortal.

Ardyn is not, as far as he knows, a mind-reader, but he gives a rather good impression at it as he turns to give Ignis an amused smile, before patting the place next to him. “At my right hand side, like any good advisor.”

“I am not your advisor,” he replies automatically. His denial, however, is rather undermined by how obediently he sets down his plate and sits himself next to the immortal, just as commanded. No wonder Ardyn is smiling so.

To escape the smile, he focuses on the food before him. It is a relatively simple dish, but one that would not have been possible the previous night, lacking as he was in most of the basic ingredients. Even he had not wanted to eat… whatever it was that he had “cooked” last night, so he had dumped it in the trash and focused his attentions on writing up the demanded list, his gnawing hunger resulting in a rather longer set of requests than he had originally anticipated.

The list had been gone by the time he went to the kitchens that morning, replaced by most (but not all) of the foods he had requested. Ignis is still not sure what had surprised him more – the fact that Ardyn had actually followed through on his word, or the revelation that even the Accursed cannot obtain kale during the end of the world. Still, he is almost impressed that the immortal was able to gather as much as he did, although that does still leave the question of _how_. He cannot imagine Ardyn in his ridiculous coat slaughtering a herd of wild garula for meat or stooping in the dirt to pick malmarshrooms, yet the man must have done something.

Probably ambushed some unsuspecting hunters. _That_ , he can envision quite easily.

Too late, he notices that the man is staring at him. He automatically stiffens, which just makes Ardyn chuckle. “No need to be so upset. I was simply appreciating that you have taken the time to improve your appearance. What kind of advisor would you be if you spent your time looking so bedraggled?”

“I am not your advisor,” he repeats firmly, as if what he thinks matters at all.

“You are if I desire it,” Ardyn replies, a soft venom underlying the statement.

“And what exactly do you need advice on?” he asks, the words sharp and bitter. “You seem to be doing a fine job ending the world on your own.”

“Such flattery,” Ardyn says, giving him a look that would make even Cor the Immortal want to turn away and run. But that seems the most efficient way to a grave, so he forces himself to maintain eye contact, not giving an inch. “And what have you been doing to stop me, exactly? At least your friends seem to putting in an effort, futile as it is.”

His entire body jolts at the mention of the others, which is no doubt what Ardyn intended. He does not care though, desperate as he is to know what has happened to Gladio and Prompto. “They are well, then?” he asks, his voice a great deal calmer than he actually feels.

“Relatively speaking,” Ardyn answers dismissively. “Fleuret, that traitor, can’t seem to stop himself from lending a hand at the most inconvenient times. He got them out of the Keep, and now they’re busy scheming up ways to stop me.” The man eyes him, as if deciding whether it would be crueler to withhold or bequeath the information that he has. “They look for you as well.”

He just manages not to shudder at that, trying to focus on what matters. “How do you know these things? Did you follow them?”

“I know many things,” is the aggravatingly unhelpful response. “I see no reason to share my methods with you, just as I saw no reason to tell your comrades that you are safe and sound with me.”

_Relatively speaking_ , he thinks to himself. But Ardyn’s interest in him, terrifying as it is, keeps him alive for the moment. He cannot say the same thing for his friends, and his next question is quiet. “What do you intend to do to them?”

“I haven’t decided,” Ardyn admits. “It could be amusing, watching them struggle so, as if anything they do actually matters. Perhaps the kinder thing would be to destroy them now, before they can succumb to despair. What would you suggest, my not-advisor?”

“Leave them be.” The words spill out almost desperately, despite his best efforts to remain composed. He forces himself to breathe, to appeal to logic, and continues, “As you said, they cannot harm you. Why waste your efforts on stopping something that you claim is no danger to yourself? If you were to engage, you risk-”

Ardyn cuts him off with a languid gesture, his throat constricting around his lies. “Don’t insult me, boy. We both know there are no risks to _me_. You want me to spare them, that much is clear, so the real question you should be answering is this: what are _you_ offering for their continued breathing?”

Ignis cannot speak, and it is not only because of the Accursed’s dark magic that strangles him where he sits. All he can do is stare at the man almost helplessly, and that is answer enough.

“That’s right,” Ardyn laughs coldly. “You’ve already offered me everything for your king. You have nothing left with which to save your friends. Perhaps you should have considered that before we struck our bargain. Still, it is always good to know where things stand, don’t you agree?”

The immortal flicks out a hand, and suddenly he can breathe again, at least physically. It is hard not to gasp for air, but Ardyn’s callous gaze is enough to keep him from humiliating himself too much more. He thinks this must be how prey feels when it is being watched, knowing that any second, a predator’s fangs will be ripping through one’s throat.

But for now, Ardyn seems content with having put him in his place, dabbing his mouth with a napkin as he stands. “An improvement,” the man says, ostensibly referring to the meal, but his tone is too pleased to be referring _only_ to that. “Might I suggest some vegetables in tomorrow’s dinner though? Remember, your services are being offered to me now, not to young Noctis.”

Ignis does not respond. He does not need to. Still, Ardyn cannot seem to resist adding one final parting shot, as he advises cheerfully, “And try to remember not to ask for things you cannot pay for, hmm? A simple life-lesson, I know, but it will save you much grief in the future.”

* * *

“Why, hello there,” Ardyn purrs. “Fancy finding you here.”

Instinctively, Ignis steps back, only to regret it quite thoroughly when he ends up colliding into the Accursed. Before he can start to wonder how the man was able to get so close without making a sound, or – better yet – move away, cold hands take hold of his shoulders, forcing him to turn so that he has no choice but to stare up into Ardyn’s amber eyes.

“So,” the immortal says, that infuriatingly familiar smile dancing across his lips. “This is where you’ve been hiding all this time.”

“I haven’t been hiding,” he replies, detesting how defensive he sounds. But while he has always been willing to take responsibility for his own actions, he has never been good at shouldering the blame for matters outside his control, and this certainly falls into that category. It is not his fault that Ardyn had disappeared during the last week… although “disappeared” does not seem to be quite accurate. Ignis might not have seen the man since their last meal, but his presence has been undeniable, whether it was in the form of the empty dishes of meals left in the dining room, the abrupt disappearance of the decomposing bodies from the halls, or the constant, inexorable feeling of being _watched_ , no matter where he was. Ignis might have physically been left to himself, but he certainly never felt alone, and he spent every moment of every day thinking that he could see Ardyn from the corner of his eyes, or feel the man’s breath on the back of his neck.

It had reached the point where he actually thought it might be preferable for the Accursed to simply confront him, rather than torturing him with the threat of his company. Of course, now that his ill wish has come to pass, he finds himself regretting that as well.

“Hmm,” is all Ardyn says about his denial, as clearly the word “accountability” has never been part of the man’s extensive vocabulary. He looks down at the book Ignis is holding, and his smile somehow manages to widen, and it is a wonder – and a tragedy – that it does not split his face across the middle. “What is this you’re reading?”

Ignis is not afforded the courtesy of a chance to respond, as Ardyn’s hand darts down to take hold of his wrist, squeezing hard until he lets go of the tome with a sharp gasp. It falls to the ground with a thud, the sound echoing through the empty library. Once the library’s patrons would have cast scandalized looks in their direction, in disbelief of anyone treating such sacred texts so badly, but now there is no one but themselves. Besides, the Accursed is not exactly the type to feel shame.

He is a bit surprised when Ardyn condescends to pick up the book, rather than ordering him to do so. The immortal holds it in the little space between them, so that Ignis cannot see his expression as Ardyn inspects the gilded lettering.

“The Founding of Lucis,” he reads, drawing out each word before he lowers the book so that Ignis can be treated to the full glory of his sneer. “Oh dear, it seems my words have cut you to the quick, if you’re looking for a way to stop me.”

“You did not order me not to,” he replies crisply, even as his insides twist. He hates Ardyn for seeing through him so easily, although perhaps not as much as he hates the fact that he is so blatantly transparent. But there is no denying the truth of the man’s words, so he does not. Because while Gladio and Prompto are putting themselves in danger to do something about the world’s end, he is trapped in the Citadel, spending more time scrubbing pots and pans than actually being _useful_.

On some abstract level, he knows he does this to protect Noct. On a decidedly less abstract level, he knows he is far from being safe, even if the daemons have stayed out of the palace (undoubtedly in deference to the most horrific monster of them all). But even though he knows these things, he just feels so helpless, and searching for a way to end the Accursed and the Starscourge gives him a purpose that he desperately needs, if only to keep him from losing his wits completely to despair.

“Indeed, I did not,” Ardyn’s acknowledgment pulls him from his thoughts, as the man flips the book open to a random page. He starts to scan it, yet somehow manages to keep an eye on Ignis all the while. “You truly think you will find something in these musty old books?”

“It does not hurt to try.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Ardyn’s tone may be pleasant, but the threat is more than clear. Ignis is silent as he continues to read, occasionally shaking his head in bemusement before he abruptly snaps the book shut and tosses it to the ground. “As I thought. You’re welcome to continue your little intellectual exercise, but I am afraid you won’t get far. My little brother may have been a feckless traitor, but he was always a thorough one. I would not be surprised if all mention of me has been erased.”

Ardyn eyes him expectantly. Ignis has no idea what the man wants – surely the man cannot be expecting sympathy, when he was the one who had turned away from the light? But something must be said to appease the Accursed, so he replies in as neutral a tone as he can manage, “It would make sense, politically. He would have needed to legitimize his claim to the throne in order to maintain his hold on it, and what better way than to make himself the natural heir, rather than the usurper?”

“My, what a diabolical little mind you have,” Ardyn comments, although he sounds quite… pleased. It is utterly terrifying. “Is this the sort of advice you plan on giving young Noctis about how to rule a country?”

“I will do what I must to serve his interests.”

“That much is obvious. How else to explain why you’re here?” And as if to punctuate the question, Ardyn wraps his hands around Ignis’s waist and pulls him close, so that their bodies are pressed against each other. Ignis cannot stop the soft gasp, nor can he stop his body from automatically trying to escape, even if such gestures are futile. Ardyn’s grip tightens so that there is nowhere for him to go, and all he can do is try not to shudder too pathetically as the Accursed leans in close.

“Why are you so scared?” Ardyn asks, his voice more a haunting croon as he reaches one hand up (but the other remains, keeping him pinned despite his best efforts) to brush his hair from his eyes, a gesture that might have been soothing if not for the cruel intent in those eyes. “Isn’t this what you agreed to? To do whatever took my fancy, to fall to your knees when I so desired? You knew this was coming, so why do you now tremble?”

He tries to speak, but once again, no words come out, and this time he cannot blame the Accursed’s dark magic for his silence. He has always been good with words, but they fail him utterly now because once again, Ardyn is right. For all his deceits and deceptions, this was one thing the immortal had never lied about. From the moment this contract was proposed, Ardyn had made clear this was always an option, yet somehow a part of him had thought it might never come to this.

And really, why would it? For all of the Accursed’s blather about loyalty and the like, who was he in the grand scheme of things? Ardyn had manipulated the Emperor, invaded an entire continent, murdered the Oracle, and unleashed darkness and madness on the whole world, simply to ensure that Noct would be led to the Crystal to gain the power of the Chosen King so that the immortal could have his revenge on a rock, a bloodline, and the gods themselves. Compared to all of that, Ardyn’s… interest in him seemed so insignificant. That was probably why he had let himself hope that he was too small to truly warrant the man’s attentions. And he had permitted himself to hope even more when Ardyn had not immediately acted on his threats, setting him instead to menial tasks that, while beneath his station, were far preferable to the alternative.

He now understands that this was exactly what Ardyn had wanted – to lull him into indulging in such wishful thinking so that when the time came, it would be all the worse.

Ardyn sighs, as if he actually feels sorry for the fool that he has manipulated so easily. “You’re starting to understand, aren’t you? You were prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice for your king, but death… death is _easy_. Living with the pain is the hard part, especially when there is no end in sight.” The hand slowly glides down to his neck, resting on his pulse so that Ardyn can easily feel how quickly his heart is pounding.

Ignis swallows, the simple gesture made all the harder by Ardyn’s fingers on his throat. “It matters not. I will protect Noct, regardless of the cost.”

Although Ardyn’s face remains impassive, his hand seems to spasm, tightening ever so slightly. Ignis is not concerned, not about death, at least. He would be a martyr, if Ardyn was to strangle him where they stand. But that is not what the immortal wants; death will not satiate him, not when there is more entertainment to be had from his suffering in the king’s name.

And he will. Because he would do anything for Noct.

“You speak as if you know about the cost of anything,” Ardyn says, the words barely more than a whisper. “But you know nothing of true sacrifice.”

“I imagine you are a very capable teacher.”

Ardyn stares at him, with that expression that makes him feel like he is truly being seen – not as a tool, a plaything, or a means for revenge – but as a person in his own right. It is probably the most dreadful experience he has ever had, but he does not flinch from it. Weak as he is, if his inability to stop his quivering is anything to judge by, he will fulfill his side of their bargain, even as he starts to wonder if even Ardyn is a bit taken aback by how far he is willing to go.

He does not let himself hope this time, and thus there is nothing to be dashed when Ardyn unhands him and steps to the side, sweeping an arm out as if he is a gentleman escorting his date to an elegant restaurant.

“After you then,” Ardyn says. “I assume you know where to go.”

Of course he does. But knowing is different from doing, and he is finding it so very difficult to move because he is certain that taking a single step will have him on his knees, and not in the way Ardyn desires. Considering how the Accursed may not actually want him, he thinks the immortal would want him even less if he starts blubbering for mercy.

But they are too set on their courses now, with Ignis determined to give everything for his king, and Ardyn adamant in taking everything that is offered and then some, both trying to prove a point that neither of them fully understands.

And yet, Ardyn dares to give him a look that might almost be sympathetic, if he did not know better than to think the man could feel anything but hatred and despair. “You could still run, you know. I will not stop you. I will even ensure that the daemons give you safe passage, until you reach human civilization.”

“And Noct?” he tilts his head slightly, inspecting the man. He knows Ardyn is telling the truth, just as he knows that it does not matter. “You will leave him be?”

“I never said that.”

He forces himself to straighten, to find the strength to serve his king. It is both difficult, yet so very easy, for it is what he has spent most of his life doing. “Then I will stay.”

“Far be it for me to dissuade you then,” the Accursed murmurs, and with that, their fates are sealed.

* * *

“Ignis.”

It takes him far too long to process that the Accursed is calling him by his name, and more time still to comprehend that the immortal even _knows_ his name. By the time he does, cold lips are pressing against his shoulder, which is now bare after he had unbuttoned his shirt with unsteady hands, shaking it off and exposing himself for the other man’s pleasure. With every layer of clothing he had shed, his resolve had wavered terribly, but it had never broken.

Which is more than can be said for himself, when this night is over.

He does not bother to hide his trembling, as Ardyn’s mouth explores his chest, and the immortal’s hands slide down his back, until they are caressing his ass. He tries his very best to focus on breathing, on staying on his knees as ordered, on not giving in to the increasing need to get away because he _does not want this_ , does not want to endure the Accursed’s touch on any part of his body. And he focuses very, very hard on not falling apart entirely when Ardyn, with little effort, pulls him up so that he is seated in the man’s lap, where he can feel the still clothed erection pressing against his thigh.

“Ignis,” the monster repeats, and he is forced to look into eyes that have not been human for a very long time. “Tell me you want me.”

He does not. Astrals, he does _not_ , but he is in no position to disobey a direct command from the false king.

“I want you,” he whispers, and closes his eyes, but that particular darkness does nothing to keep him from feeling what happens next.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Are you insane?” he asks in open wonder. It is not the most articulate of responses, but it is certainly the most polite of the litany that is running through his head at the moment._
> 
> _“Almost certainly,” Ardyn admits with a shrug. “Being abandoned by the world tends to do that to a person. But that is hardly the point. It is not as if I did not give you a chance to run, so why do you persist in acting like you’ve been wronged?”_

When Ignis opens his eyes, the world is a blurry mess. He does not remember passing out, and worse still, he has no sense of how long he was unconscious, his sense of time skewed by the ever shortening days. There are no clocks in the royal chambers, although he knows there used to be, including one particularly grand piece that had graced the mantle place, along with photographs of smiling faces. They are all gone now, of course. Perhaps they were destroyed during the invasion, although more likely they were destroyed by the Accursed.

His heart leaps into his throat, as the mere _thought_ of the immortal sends his entire being into a panic. He tries to swallow it down, but it quickly proves impossible. As his mind clears, it only leaves it all the more vulnerable to the onslaught of memories of what had happened, of his wrists being pinned down above his head, of teeth taking the place of those cold lips on his shoulder, of even colder fingers pressing _in_ , only to be replaced by-

He rolls onto his left side and dry heaves, although all that comes up is bile. Probably a good thing, as that would have been quite a mess, and who knows what Ardyn would have-

_Ardyn_. _Ardyn_ , who is on his right, back towards him. His vision might be hazy without his glasses, but somehow the Accursed is crystal clear, and he has to stifle a cry as it sinks in just how close they are, and only just manages to do so by harshly reminding himself of what could happen if the man actually _woke up_. The immortal’s breathing is steady and slow, suggesting sleep, which means this is his chance to escape. The thought of still being in this room when Ardyn does awaken is too much to bear, and that thought, while far from calming, is at least enough to focus his mind on what he must do.

As quickly and quietly as he can, he eases himself from the bed, grimacing as each movement sends pain through his body. He clings to the pain, using it as a reminder that he must act, lest he again be subjected to _fingers digging into his waist, hard enough to bruise, Ardyn’s harsh breathing the only thing he can hear as he bites his lips to keep from whimpering at each agonizing—_ **no**. No, he cannot afford to drown in this right now, and his hands fumble desperately for his clothing, which are in a rather disorderly pile (understandable, really, given that the last thing he’d had in mind when removing them was folding them properly).

He pulls them on, not bothering with all the buttons of his shirt or the socks and suit jacket. He just needs enough so that he can walk out with some dignity intact because even if they are the only two people in the palace, he will not walk around naked. He has been through enough already, and he cannot handle that further denigration.

His steps are shaky as he heads for the exit, and nearly sobs in relief when he turns the handle and the door is not locked. He does not know what he would have done if it had been – probably thrown himself out the window, daemons be damned.

Without knowing why, he turns before he slips out the door, only to see that Ardyn is awake and staring right at him. His blood seems to curdle as they lock eyes, and all he can do is wait for the immortal to stop his flight with a casual command to strip off his clothes and return to the bed, like the good little whore he has chosen to be.

Instead, Ardyn just closes his eyes and turns onto his other side, as if the person he has just _violated_ is wholly beneath his attention. Ignis takes it as permission to flee, and does so immediately.

* * *

Ignis does not run, although his chest is burning with exertion by the time he reaches his quarters. Every breath is short and stuttered, and none of the oxygen seems to be reaching his lungs, let alone his brain. His heart is pounding but not nearly as badly as his _head_ , a steady drumbeat that matches the constant refrain of _for Noct, for Noct, for_ Noct, that echoes through his mind like a broken record.

He gently closes the door, locking it tightly before heading straight for the bathroom. He turns on the shower to all of its highest settings before undressing, folding the clothes neatly (why he bothers, he cannot say, for he fully intends on burning it all once he regains control of his senses), before stepping in.

The water hits him with a blast, the intense pressure nearly stripping off his skin. He doesn’t care. Instead, he tilts his head back, letting it hit him in the hollow of his throat where the Accursed had sucked on his skin while whispering of his foolish fealty to his king, before he lets out a scream that is immediately swallowed by the prison he has trapped himself in.

* * *

“You’re still here?” Ardyn asks brightly, when he serves him dinner. “You’re more of a glutton for punishment than I thought.”

Ignis stares at him, or really right through him because if he really looks at the man, he might try to claw his own eyes out (or better yet, the Accursed’s). Tonight’s dish is a more complicated one, which had forced him to concentrate on preparing it correctly rather than wondering about the virtues of getting back in the shower and trying to scrub off another layer of skin. What had ultimately stopped him was the fact that even if he scrubbed himself down to the bone, he would still be able to feel the immortal’s hands on him.

“And not sitting either,” Ardyn comments, his shrewd glance betraying his idle tone. “Did I hurt you so badly that you cannot sit beside me?”

“No,” he replies shortly, although it is not entirely honest. Physically, he must admit that the damage was not too bad, but mentally, the thought of sitting next to the immortal makes him reconsider his decision to exit via the door rather than the window. He knows it is ludicrous, given that the Accursed could have hurt him so much more… but then, there is still time for that in the days (weeks, months, _years_ ) to come, and Ardyn does not seem the merciful sort.

“Then sit.”

He obeys. It’s certainly the least distasteful of the orders he has been given in the past twenty-four hours, and perhaps his compliance will satisfy the man long enough to escape this dinner unscathed.

He really should have known better than to let that thought even cross his mind, as almost immediately, the Accursed turns to him, giving him a long, contemplative look.

“You seem upset.”

His fork drops onto his plate with a loud clatter, sending sauce flying everywhere as he stares at Ardyn in honest disbelief. For his part, the man just returns to his own dinner, as if the table is not currently covered in the delicate sauce that had taken Ignis a good two hours to prepare. He has no idea how to respond to the man’s oh so keen observation, or at least not in a way that does not involve him taking the remainder of his meal and throwing it into Ardyn’s damn _face_ , like the petulant child that he had never been allowed to be when growing up.

But the Accursed has never had trouble carrying a conversation on his own, indubitably thanks to two millennia of practice and the inescapable fact that the man is a gods-damned sociopath (both figuratively and _literally_ ). “I am really not sure why you are so upset.”

“Are you insane?” he asks in open wonder. It is not the most articulate of responses, but it is certainly the most polite of the litany that is running through his head at the moment.

“Almost certainly,” Ardyn admits with a shrug. “Being abandoned by the world tends to do that to a person. But that is hardly the point. It is not as if I did not give you a chance to run, so why do you persist in acting like you’ve been wronged?”

His mouth is agape in utter shock, and he cannot compose himself because he cannot believe this is actually happening. He honestly cannot. He must still be asleep and trapped in a nightmare for that is the only logical explanation for this conversation, where he is being asked to justify _why he is upset over being raped_.

There is a part of him that recoils from the word, but not using it will not change what happened because that is what it _was_. He may have said yes, may have parroted the words that the Accursed had wanted him to say, may have lain on his back and parted his legs when ordered to do so, but none of that meant he had _wanted_ it. He made the choice, he does not dispute that, but his decision was set the moment Ardyn threatened his king. For Noct – his liege, his friend, his _brother_ – he would do anything, but he would never mistake that as desire for the man sitting next to him.

“A chance to run,” he finally manages to repeat, and it is truly a miracle that his voice does not crack from the strain of it all. “What does that matter? You knew I would never take it.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I didn’t know.” Ardyn stabs a piece of meat with far more force than necessary, and Ignis wonders if he is imagining stabbing something a bit more alive. “Anyone else would have run.”

“I am not anyone else.”

“Anyone else with sense,” the man amends, before taking a delicate bite of his meal, chewing slowly as if he actually needs the time to consider what madness he will be spitting out next. “Considering how you are the king’s advisor, you really do seem to be lacking in good judgment. First Altissia, then Zegnautus Keep, now this? I would almost admire your dogged determination to sacrifice yourself, if it wasn’t so patently stupid.”

Ignis is a bit astounded that he can still feel such rage and revulsion towards the man. Better than only feeling fear, he supposes, but it is also why he cannot stop himself from demanding of a man who would drag the entire world to the grave with him, “And what would you know of self-sacrifice?”

“I’ve seen it, here and there.” From his casual tone, one would think the Accursed speaks of an amusing landmark, and not the lives of others better than him. “I can even show you, if you like. In fact-” Ardyn’s eyes seem to light up at the prospect of a new, more creative torture, “-perhaps I shall, after we finish this wonderful meal you’ve prepared. You have nothing planned for this evening, do you?”

He is tempted to say that he does, if it means he can avoid whatever the Accursed has in mind, but he knows he cannot. There is no escaping this so long as Ardyn breathes, and he had proven himself quite useless at correcting that particular mistake even when he had the power of the kings at his behest. “I am at your disposal.”

“Of course you are,” Ardyn acknowledges with that condescending grin. “Now finish your meal, boy. We wouldn’t want you fainting on me again, now would we?”

* * *

Ignis is pathetically relieved when Ardyn does not lead them to the royal chambers. But because it is Ardyn, any relief he feels is short-lived, fading like the dying sun the moment they enter the throne room.

Like the rest of the palace, the corpses on the floor have been cleared away, although again Ignis does his best not to wonder where the bodies have ended up. This display of self-control is made easier by the fact that unlike the rest of the palace, the great hall is not _completely_ clear of the dead, who now swing from the rafters, their chains jangling softly despite the deathly still air.

“What is this?” he whispers, trying not to cringe at the sight King Regis staring down at him, those blind eyes weeping black tears. “What have you done?”

“I thought this room could use some redecorating,” Ardyn replies innocently. “Do you not like it?”

Even the Accursed, for all his insanity, cannot expect an answer to that. He tears his gaze from his former king – how is it that despite the loss of his glasses, he can see every lurid detail with perfect clarity? – only to land on the Oracle’s delicate body. He had not had the fortune of meeting Lady Lunafreya until after Ardyn had murdered her, and could only watch helplessly as Ravus had cradled her close. She is as hauntingly beautiful now as she was then, but all Ignis can think is that she should not have been reduced to this, a mere decoration for Ardyn’s personal amusement.

“Come now, don’t frown like that. It ruins your face.” Possessive hands grip his shoulder, applying more pressure than they had the previous night, and he can practically _feel_ Ardyn’s words being breathed down the back of his neck. “I thought this was what you wanted? To see what becomes of those who attain the glory of becoming self-righteous sacrifices?

“You already know of that fool king and the Oracle,” Ardyn continues, before his left hand snakes upward to take hold of Ignis’s chin and force him to look upwards at the next desecrated soul. “That one though, how well do you know him?”

He does not attempt to look away, knowing that he lacks the strength to resist. “Nyx Ulric,” he identifies hoarsely. “A Kingsglaive.” The description seems wholly inadequate though. He had not known Glaive Ulric well, but they had sparred occasionally (with Ignis on the losing end two times out of three, but the indignity of those losses were well-worth the new techniques he learned from the Hero). They had even gone out for drinks a few times, along with Gladio and some of the other Glaives. Those few interactions were enough for Ignis to know that Ulric was a good man who, like King Regis and Lady Lunafreya, deserves far better than being trophies in the Accursed’s ever-expanding collection of broken things.

“I thought you would be most interested in him,” Ardyn explains, as if he honestly believes he is doing Ignis a favor right now. “After all, he is your predecessor, seeing how he was the last one to put on that cursed ring.”

His eyes are immediately drawn to the telltale crystalline scarring that spreads from Ulric’s right hand to his cheeks, turning his skin to an eerie silver white. They had heard the stories from the refugees, of the Glaive who had put on the ring and wielded the power of the old kings to bring the Old Wall to life, fighting off the daemons that would destroy Insomnia. There were too many stories to dismiss it as rumor, but no one had been able to identify the man either, until now. Ignis has no doubt that it was Ulric, being all too familiar himself with how the Ring of the Lucii marked those who it deigned to lend its powers to.

“Alas though,” Ardyn says, although there is not an ounce of sympathy in his voice. “He was not as lucky as you to have someone to vouch for him, and so the kings burned him to ashes once they were done using him. A pathetic waste, do you not agree?”

“The kings require a sacrifice,” he replies. They had made that clear enough when he had put on the ring, and he had been all too willing to pay the blood price if it meant protecting Noct.

“That’s not what I meant,” Ardyn corrects patiently, letting go of his face to point at King Regis, in the same way he used to point out the constellations to Noct when they were children. “That one died to save his son, who is now trapped in the Crystal being raised by the gods for slaughter. That soldier there-” a lazy gesture in Ulric’s direction, “-died to save a city that nonetheless has been taken over by the daemons. And that woman… what did she die for again? Ah yes, to prevent the darkness from spreading, and yet where has the sun fled to?” The Accursed steps around him so that they are face to face, and there is no sick enjoyment in his expression, only a mild curiosity. “Do you still admire them for their sacrifices, when they all died for nothing?”

“Not for nothing.” His denial rings hollow even to his own ears.

Ardyn raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Would you care to explain what they accomplished then?” The Accursed does not bother waiting for an answer, although the gesture is not made in kindness – doubtless he knows that they will be waiting until the end of time before he gets an answer to that. He looks up at the corpses that dangle from the rafters, his expression thoughtful. “Perhaps I should string you up along with them, if that is what you desire. You do fit in quite neatly, what with the pointless sacrifices and all.”

Ignis immediately pulls away, some vague semblance of self-preservation finally kicking in, but it is too late for him. With barely an effort, Ardyn hooks an arm around his waist and yanks him back towards the immortal, while the other hand starts to lazily unbutton his shirt. “But I suppose you have not quite earned your place amongst their hallowed ranks, seeing how you could not even manage the dying part. And that is the difference, between you and them. You see, history has a predictable tendency of romanticizing the dead, but as for the living? How do you think history will remember you, the loyal retainer who spread his legs so readily?”

He clenches his teeth, although whether it is because of the blunt assessment of his circumstances or the fact that Ardyn has slipped his shirt off, he does not dare speculate. Still, he tries to ignore the unpleasant churning of his stomach as he grits out, “I care not for what history thinks.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Ardyn replies. “Humans are always so worried about their mortality, and what better way of preserving their legacy than in the stories that are passed on to future generations?”

“And you think you know humans so well, do you?” he snaps. He does not usually like to let his anger get the best of him, but better that than the sickening terror that threatens to consume him whole as nails scrape against his exposed abdomen, as they journey further downwards.

“Far more than you, I would imagine,” the immortal says. “I knew a man once. He too sacrificed his body for the sake of others, and thought himself good for doing so. Would you like to know what happened to him?”

Even as a child, Ignis had never had much interest in fairytales, and he has even less interest in one dressed as a moral lesson from the Accursed. But when he finds incapable of answering because Ardyn is unbuckling his belt, the immortal takes his choked silence as permission to continue.

“It’s quite a sad story, actually.” Not that it stops the Accursed’s hands from their wanderings, so focused as they are on unwrapping the shivering creature before him. “He gave and gave and _gave_ , until he was barely more than a shell, and yet he continued to give because it was never enough for his people. And when he finally had no more to give, they cast him out, cursing him as a demon and treating him with shame. He died a lonely death, not understanding why they would turn on him so easily, when all he had ever wanted was to do right by them. But that is humanity for you. Always so capricious, with no loyalty except to their own interests.”

Ignis can barely hear what Ardyn is saying, as with little ceremony, the immortal pushes his trousers down, humming appreciatively as his legs are revealed. _Not again_ , he wants to say, _not like this_ , in the throne room with the dead watching them with those wide, empty eyes. But begging will get him nowhere, and neither will giving into the fear, so he tries his best to focus on saying something that might stop the man from continuing this, even if he knows he will not succeed. “What are you suggesting? That what happened to a dead man justifies what you do now?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Ardyn says sharply, but with no true anger as he considers what humiliation he would like to inflict next. “I do not need to justify myself to you. I seek no absolution. All I do is tell you simple truths to make you understand that loyalty has no place in this world, and that it will bring you nothing but pain.”

“So you think you do me a favor?” He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the notion of the Accursed helping anyone, and settles for trying to feel nothing at all when Ardyn presses a trail of kisses from his clavicle to right above his heart, which is pounding so fast that it is amazing it does not burst right out of his chest. He wants so desperately to push the immortal away, to run to his chambers and lock the door, but he is bound here by the promises he has made. Loyalty may be laughable to the Accursed, but it has defined Ignis for all his life, and he cannot let the man take that away from him.

Not when so much has already been taken.

“Of course,” Ardyn replies, looking up at him through lidded eyes, drunk on the pleasure of knowing how much he _does not want this_. “It is not my fault if you choose not to listen. Still, one good turn deserves another, does it not? I think it is time for you to return the favor by getting on your knees.”

* * *

The marble floor is cold and unforgiving, but it is nothing compared to how the Accursed takes and takes and _takes_ , until he too wishes that he had nothing more to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2/27/18: There will be no update this week, as I'm still trying to figure out how to write chapter 5. Hopefully it will be up the following week, but to be honest I cannot even guarantee that. Thanks so much for your patience, and many apologies for the delay! But I do want to make sure to get the chapter right, even if it means being late.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You really are determined to play the victim, aren’t you?” Ardyn asks, and although he is smiling again, it no longer reaches his eyes. “Has no one ever warned you of the dangers of being stubborn?”_
> 
> _“Says the man who has spent two thousand years railing against the gods.”_
> 
> _“Exactly,” Ardyn says. “Which means I know exactly what I speak of.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for the delay, and thanks to everyone for your patience! Four iterations later, I can’t claim I’m completely satisfied with this chapter, but I think it’s the best I can manage after repeatedly throwing out everything I had written (my deleted scenes file for this story is now nearly 16,000 words long). More importantly, I think this chapter got the story to where I needed it to be, so hopefully there will not be any other delays (famous last words).

The daggers land with a dull thud, the force of his strike burying the blades to the hilt.

He steps back, gazing critically at his handiwork. Too far to the side, he can hear Gladio commenting, he’s missed the vital organ. He supposes it matters not. For one thing, the violence of his attack would be more than enough to kill most anyone, regardless of him being an inch or so to the left.

For another, it is not as if the Accursed has a heart for him to aim for.

Ignis does not flinch, when the slow clap begins. Even before he had struck that final blow, he’d known that Ardyn was standing at the door to the training room, watching him. Perhaps it should bother him that he can sense the man’s presence without even looking, despite every inch of the palace reeking of the darkness that the Accursed himself is steeped in. Perhaps it should bother him that his default reaction to Ardyn’s unwelcome appearances is resignation, as if he has already accepted that anything he does would be useless.

Perhaps. But it doesn’t.

Granted, it has never been in his nature to give into his emotions. Some people called him cold, but he considered it necessary to his position; rather than lash out with anger or violence, he bides his time, conserving his strength as he weighs his options and waits for the most opportune moment to strike back. Of course, that requires _having_ options to choose from. That is not the case now, where the only choice he has is to stand stiffly as Ardyn strides past him, as if he does not matter.

“Remarkable, that you can manage this with a practice blade,” Ardyn says admiringly, although even that seems like an insult as one finger taps lazily on the dagger’s hilt. “Tell me, were you imagining me when you attacked the poor thing?”

Ignis’s lip curls in disgust at the brightness of the question. “I was not thinking of anything.”

“Liar,” the Accursed replies cheerfully. “You’re not even trying.”

That much is true. There seems little point in trying when Ardyn either sees through his lies or refuses to believe when he is speaking the truth. Luckily for them both, sincerity has never been the point of their arrangement, judging from Ardyn’s continued insistence on making him say words that he will never mean ( _“Tell me you want me,”_ the Accursed croons each and every day. _“Tell me you want this.”_ ). Even now, Ardyn does not pay him any mind, his attention focused on the training dummy from which the daggers protrude.

Ignis has long given up on trying to predict what the immortal will do, yet even he is stunned when Ardyn wraps a hand around the hilt of one of the daggers and pulls it out with one smooth motion. With the effortless grace of a person who no longer fears anything, Ardyn flips the dagger in the air and catches it by the blade, before holding it out to Ignis. “Perhaps a friendly match?”

He stares at the weapon warily, and makes no move to take it. “What purpose would that serve?”

“Must everything have a purpose?” Ardyn replies, as if Ignis’s entire life does not currently revolve around satisfying the Accursed’s every twisted whim. “Come now, is this not what you wanted? To summon one of your pretty blades and plunge it through my back?”

When put like that, it is terribly tempting. For the past month, he dreams of that tantalizing possibility on a near constant basis, only to regret it immediately. Not because he is averse to violence – quite the opposite really, especially when it comes to Ardyn – but because the thought is hardly satisfying when he knows he cannot. He gave up his right to fight back just as surely as he gave up his right to decide what happens to his own body. Imagining otherwise might be pleasing in the moment, but once reality sets in, it leaves him feeling tired and empty, and all the more vulnerable to the despair that threatens to burrow into his mind and drive him mad for good.

And he is going mad, he thinks sometimes. His weakness is disappointing, but not particularly surprising given the circumstances. He is starting to understand all too well what the immortal had meant, when he said that living was the hard part. Ignis was more than willing to die for Noct, and while he is still willing to debase himself as necessary, now he has to actually live with the consequences of that decision.

While he has never been delusional enough to think that he would get used to this, he had hoped that it might get easier with time – that instead of fear and shame, he would eventually be lucky enough to feel nothing at all when Ardyn strips him of both his clothing and his dignity. Instead, it only gets harder each day, as he forces himself to submit time and time again.

Now he is being offered something different, and slowly, he takes the dagger that is being offered to him. Ardyn’s lips curl into that mocking smile, but it lasts only a second before Ignis drops the blade, letting it fall to the ground with a loud clatter. Once he might have felt satisfaction at the way Ardyn’s expression flits briefly to surprise, but now he knows better than to think for a second that this little act of rebellion will go well for him.

“You really are determined to play the victim, aren’t you?” Ardyn asks, and although he is smiling again, it no longer reaches his eyes. “Has no one ever warned you of the dangers of being stubborn?”

“Says the man who has spent two thousand years railing against the gods.”

“Exactly,” Ardyn says. “Which means I know exactly what I speak of.”

Ignis hears the warning, but makes no move to pick up the dagger. He does not know what Ardyn wants, but he wishes to have no part of it, and the immortal has yet to give him an explicit command. “If you are trying to teach me another lesson, you are doing a poor job of it.”

“Perhaps a more hands-on lesson is in order then,” Ardyn suggests, before the air around him flashes red with the summoning of his armiger. Before Ignis can even begin to process the danger he is in, Ardyn has selected a sword and all he can hear is the shriek of the blade coming at him.

There is a fatalistic part of him that welcomes the blade and the release it offers. But years of training and endless repetition override any personal desires, and he automatically raises his hands so that the sword hits the steel of his lance, rather than cleaving him in half. Even through the blue sparks of the Crystal’s magic, he can see Ardyn’s satisfaction.

“Very good,” the Accursed purrs, pulling the sword away in a lazy gesture. “I knew we would get there eventually.”

Get _where_ exactly? He is breathing hard, his knuckles white with the force with which he holds his polearm. Part of it is the exertion of his training before Ardyn had so rudely dropped in, but mostly it is the quiet anxiety of not understanding what Ardyn could possibly want from making him act to save his own miserable life – a life he is not even _sure_ he wants anymore. He thought he had given Ardyn everything already, but judging from how pleased the man looks, he clearly has given something else, and he has no idea what it is.

Ardyn might be feeling satisfied, but that does not mean that the immortal is done with him. The man’s armiger still surrounds him, and this time the Accursed chooses one of his own spears before grinning at Ignis. “And since you’re being so accommodating, why don’t we make this a bit more interesting?”

Their definitions of interesting turn out to be very different. Just like their first battle at Zegnautus Keep, Ignis never stands a chance. He just barely manages to block the spear from impaling him to the wall, but it’s followed quickly by the rest of the armiger, giving him no opportunity to summon his daggers or imbue his weapons with the elements. All he can do is rely on the unmagicked steel of his lance, but it offers little defense when compared to the magic of the kings, bastardized as it is. It is not long before he is nicked and wounded, blood flowing freely from cuts on his cheek, his arms, his side. All of it superficial because Ardyn is only _toying_ with him, and the man is still laughing at how helpless he is when the pommel of a greatsword slams into his chest, flinging him backwards into the wall.

Ignis hears before he actually _feels_ the sickening crack of his head hitting marble, sending waves of agony all the way down to his bones, and somehow he is still able to think that it is such a shame that it is not his spine that has shattered.

The lance falls from his slack grip, disappearing with a flash of light that makes his vision spin dangerously and his stomach lurch. The last thing he sees before he blacks out completely is the Accursed, once again standing over him in quiet, self-assured triumph.

* * *

Ignis lurches back to consciousness both figuratively and literally, and regrets it immediately as the haste with which he sat up causes him to double over in sheer pain. His brain practically rattles in his skull – a concussion, almost certainly, and he thinks he can feel blood oozing from where he’s torn open his wounds – and his insides are so twisted that he’d throw up if he had any strength to do so. He doesn’t, so the bile stays inside, eating away at him like the constant fear and humiliation that haunts his every step.

“Oh dear,” Ardyn murmurs, false concern lacing his words as he takes Ignis by the shoulders and slowly eases him back down so that he is lying on the bed. It helps with the physical pain, but not the emotional trauma as the man leans over him, legs caging his in place and upper body barely an inch from his own, a threat of what is to come. “Hasn’t anyone told you not to push yourself when you’re injured?”

As if the Accursed was not the very cause of his injuries. But Ardyn was always good at shifting blame, and this is no exception. Already Ardyn seems to have moved on, the coolness of his fingers on Ignis’s forehead almost comforting if not for the fact that it is so frustratingly _confusing_. Attacking him one moment before treating him with a peculiar gentleness the next… it is that sort of unpredictability that makes Ardyn so difficult to deal with, for how is he to prepare for what he cannot see coming? The violence is at least understandable, given that they are enemies (although he suspects that it is a one-sided sentiment, as Ardyn makes no secret of how unimportant he is in the grand scheme of things). But now this sudden kindness? Ardyn is not in the habit of compassion, which must mean that he wants something. But just as before, Ignis is incapable of figuring out what that something is, and before he can think better of it, he croaks out, “What… what are you doing?”

Judging from the look of surprise on Ardyn’s face, he’s managed to catch the man off-guard, although any victory is short-lived as the shock quickly fades into the usual lazy smile.

“What am I doing?” Ardyn’s knuckles brush against his cheek with a tenderness that contrasts sharply with how scornful he sounds. “I thought it was obvious, or have I been too subtle for you?”

“ _No_ ,” he replies with such vehemence that the pounding in his head seems to increase threefold. He resents losing control so easily, but the headache and the nausea and the sheer _closeness_ of the immortal has stretched him to his limits. Besides, what has it accomplished for him, trying to remain calm and detached from what is happening? The immortal’s pleasure seems no less diminished; if anything, he seems even more entertained by Ignis’s futile struggles to act as if he is unaffected by the constant degradation, as if he is not losing a part of himself every time Ardyn orders him to say that he _wants this_.

“Then why ask such ridiculous questions?” The hand travels downwards to rest against his neck, to feel the rapid flutter of his pulse. Ardyn has a disturbing fascination with his pulse, and Ignis is not sure if it is because the immortal relishes the irrefutable evidence of his fear or because it is a reminder of mortality, something that the man is now only acquainted with in passing.

He swallows, the motion emphasized by the fingers that dance on his throat. “You must want something.”

“Of course I do,” Ardyn says agreeably, but when he looks at Ignis through lidded eyes, there is a darkness there that is not just the Starscourge at work. “I want your king, dead at my feet. I want the gods, screaming in fear as the world burns. I want this to end, and I’ll take everything with me to do so.”

“And me?”

The immortal blinks slowly, sitting up. “What about you, boy?”

As disparaging as the question is, it is belied by the way Ardyn peers down at him, utterly transfixed by whatever it is that he is seeing. “Why make me a part of this? All those things you claim you want have nothing to do with me.”

“Perhaps I desired some amusement while I wait. The end of days is not nearly as exciting as one would think.”

Ignis frowns, brows furrowing at the man’s cavalier comment. “You’re lying.”

“Am I really?” Ardyn’s eyebrows raise, and to most anyone it would look like he does not care, but there is something about his tone that betrays his irritation. “Because you think you know me so well, do you?”

It is true that there is a great deal that he does not know about the immortal. But sometimes he thinks that he understands Ardyn better than he should, and that does not terrify him nearly as much as it does the Accursed. Ardyn dissembles as easily as most people breathe, and his entire existence is wrapped up in so many lies that even Ardyn does not seem to know where reality begins anymore.

What Ardyn is saying… there could be some truth to it. Ardyn has given him no reason to think that the man expects anything from him except as a diversion from the long wait for Noct to wake up. But somehow it does not feel as simple as that, and not only because nothing Ardyn does ever seems simple. He is certain that if he was able to think clearly, he would figure it out, but that is outside of his control now. It is not just his current pain as well, although that is certainly not helping things; it is hard to concentrate in general when he spends every waking moment in fear of what is to come next.

On a practical level, he knows he should not be so affected. Their little battle aside, Ardyn does not go out of his way to hurt him, at least not physically. But there are other ways of breaking a person, and the immortal seems to know that this is what Ignis has always feared most, the loss of control. He can handle physical pain, has been _trained_ for it, for the life of a prince’s retainer is often marred by violence. But this is something else entirely, and while he has never been blind to the danger of rape, Ardyn takes it to a whole new heights.

So maybe it is true, that Ardyn simply tortures him for amusement. If that is the case, then Ignis really has no hope left, and all he can do is try to hold out for as long as he can before Ardyn finally tires of him and discards him. But if there is the slightest possibility of something more, even if it is something that Ardyn does not recognize, then he will cling to that, if only to keep him sane.

Of course, he cannot explain any of that to the immortal, and Ardyn takes his silence as surrender. “That’s what I thought,” the immortal says with a disappointed sigh, before shifting off of him completely. Then he is being pulled up, positioned so that he sitting in the Accursed’s lap, his back against the man’s broad chest. “You really don’t know much of anything, even though you try to act like you do. Sometimes even I am fooled, and forget what a child you are.”

“I’m not a child,” he protests, although he supposes everyone is a child compared to someone who has lived for millennia, and seen what little humanity has to offer.

“Of course you are,” Ardyn replies, and he does not even have the decency to be cruel about it. “You certainly act like one, with your foolish decisions. Why look at you now. You give yourself up so willingly, but what do you actually hope to accomplish?”

He knows the answer to that, for it is the one that has been seared into his soul since he was introduced to his purpose in life. “Noct-”

“The Chosen King will die,” the immortal cuts off patiently. “I know you saw the prophecy when the Oracle’s mongrel perished. Whether he dies in the Crystal or at the will of the gods, the king will die regardless. So what is the point of putting yourself through this? Do you intend to suffer just so that you can watch him murdered by his ancestors?”

He scrambles for an answer, a task far easier said than done when thinking hurts so much. “He is the Chosen King, and he will bring the light-”

“Ah, but you do not care about the fate of the world if it means your precious Noct will die. Is that not what you so valiantly proclaimed during our little skirmish?” As if to punctuate the reminder, Ardyn somehow pulls him even closer. “You asked me what I want, but what about you? What does the loyal retainer want, if not for light to return to the world?”

“What does it matter?” he replies through gritted teeth, trying to control his breathing and failing miserably. “You yourself said this has nothing to do with me.”

“I think you enjoy this.”

Ignis cannot help the furious snarl, and he tries to twist around, to turn and look the monster in the eye, but Ardyn has him pinned so neatly that his struggles quickly fade as he realizes how futile it is. All he can do is stare straight ahead at their shadows on the pale gray wall as he demands, “How can you even say such a thing?”

“Quite easily,” Ardyn says, resting his chin in the crook of Ignis’s neck. There is no laughter in the man’s voice, no ridicule, and although the arms tighten it is not with the threat of rape, but to simply hold him there, so that he cannot escape a single foul word. “Is this not what you always wanted, to sacrifice yourself for your king? It’s a bit slower than the sacrifice you tried to make, but can you really claim not to enjoy placing yourself between your king and his enemy, to act as his true shield? Does it not make you feel important?’

“No,” he denies desperately. “Absolutely not.”

“ _Liar_ ,” the immortal calls him once again, but this time there is no humor. Ardyn’s voice is steel, unyielding and unrelenting, and far more dangerous than any blade. “Why do you deny how much you like this?”

“You think I enjoy this?” he demands, anger surging forward at the implication that he wants any part in what Ardyn does to him daily, when the mere thought of the immortal touching him sickens him to his core. Just as Ardyn refuses to let him go, he holds onto his rage, using it to block out what the Accursed has the audacity to suggest. “You think this satisfies me?”

“I do,” Ardyn confirms, with a calmness that is far worse than his usual disdain, for it is so gentle that it douses his anger and leaves him utterly defenseless. “What would you be doing if not this? Running blind with your faithful companions, trying to forestall a prophecy that the gods themselves have dictated? No, you would never have been satisfied by that. You needed a purpose, and is that not what I have given you?”

He shakes his head desperately, despite how it makes his entire world sway, but then it is not only the physical pain that has him completely off-balance. Hard as he tries, he cannot block out what Ardyn is saying because there is _truth_ to what he is saying. He had willingly gone with Ardyn to Zegnautus Keep to save Noct, only to fail to kill the Accursed. He had not even managed to pay the blood price demanded of him for daring to wear the Ring. Instead, for his sin of pride, Noct had intervened on his behalf and given himself to the Crystal, in thrall to a future in which he would wake up only to die. Ignis had spent his entire life preparing to die for his king, but in the end, it was Noct who had sacrificed himself to save _him_.

And thus the rest of his life would have been defined by his failure, by his inability to protect Noct… if not for Ardyn’s offer. Like it or not, Ardyn had given him a chance to do something for his friend. Something that was offered only to him, and not to the others, something he had not hesitated to do. By agreeing to give up everything, was he not in fact seeking to _redeem_ himself?

“You want this,” Ardyn confirms matter-of-factly because if nothing else, the immortal has proven most adept at reading his innermost thoughts and laying him bare, exposing him in more ways than one. “I see on your face how much you dislike admitting it, but surely you must see the truth of it now? Isn’t it time for you to give up the lie, and admit what you are? There is no shame in it. You do this for your king, and I suppose that is admirable in its way. There is nothing wrong with wanting this.”

Ignis does not respond. He cannot. He knows that if he even tries to open his mouth, he will lose himself completely, although perhaps it is far too late to be worrying about that.

Ardyn is content with his silence. The immortal knows he has already won, and Ignis does not resist when the man pushes him down onto the bed. He lands on his front, and does not even attempt to move away, not even when the heavy weight of the Accursed’s body rests on his. He does not close his eyes, when Ardyn kisses his neck, where the man must surely be able to feel how his pulse no longer races in fear, but continues on in quiet acceptance of what he has become. He does not react, when Ardyn pulls off his clothing and presses him into the mattress. He does not feel anything, when the man takes him.

He had hoped with time, he would start to feel nothing at his own violation. He supposes he has succeeded.

* * *

Ardyn does not raise the matter again. Instead, the Accursed orders him to say, over and over again, that he wants this. Ardyn may have told him there is no disgrace in it, but each time he obeys, the words are accompanied by a deep shame that comes only from knowing that he is speaking the truth. It is an ugly truth, but he is no longer able to deny it, not without being the liar that the immortal has proclaimed him to be.

Acceptance is a curious thing, both burdening and freeing. He knows what he is, and moves on with his life. Granted, he has little choice in the matter; Ardyn is not about to release him from his obligations simply because he is having a personal crisis. And if there is one thing Ignis has always been good at it, it is carrying out his obligations, and so he continues to cook and clean and get on his knees when Ardyn requires it. There is no point in fighting it, not when he is complicit, so he does not.

There is shame in that as well, at how easily he has given in. But giving in is what he has agreed to do, in order to protect Noct. It might not be what he had envisioned, when he had sworn his life to the throne, but his personal desires and expectations have always been secondary to what has to be done. This is no different, and the sooner he accepts that, the easier it becomes.

Of course, life is rarely easy, as proven several weeks later, when he is in the courtyard. The sun lasts barely an hour now, and it is not often that he permits himself to wander outside, so close to the daemons that resent him for living. But for this moment, at least, the light banishes them from this place, and he closes his eyes and wonders (in the detached manner of someone who does not actually care) what will become of them all once the sun finally abandons the world for good.

Perhaps that is why he is caught off-guard by the sound of footsteps, and a voice that he both yearns for and fears. “Iggy!”

He turns, and his eyes widen at the familiar sight.

“Gladio?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Hey.” He flinches away, and Gladio has the sense to stop from putting a hand on his shoulder, as the man had clearly intended to do. But that doesn’t stop the Shield from asking, his expression the very picture of concern, “Ignis. What happened to you?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small point, but one that has bothered me ridiculously; I added a quick line to the prior chapter to clarify that Ignis was using a practice weapon in the first scene, not his usual daggers. That was always my intent, but then I realized I never actually specified it. So when Ignis used the lance to protect himself from Ardyn’s attack, it was the first time he had used the armiger since the first chapter.

“ _Gladio_.” Ignis practically chokes on the name, not quite able to believe that his friend is here, even when Gladio comes to a stop just a few steps away. “What are you… how… how did you-?”

“Find you?” Gladio finishes quietly, once it becomes painfully clear that he is incapable of completing his own sentences. He nods numbly, and to his shock, the man looks ashamed. “We… shit, Iggy, I swear we didn’t even know you were alive. You just _disappeared_ with Ardyn, and it wasn’t until we felt you use the armiger that-”

Gladio is still talking, but the words are drowned out by the roar of blood in his ears. All too vividly, he remembers that sick look of satisfaction on the Accursed’s face when he had summoned his lance to defend himself. In doing so, he had alerted Gladio and Prompto to his continued existence, and of course they would stop at nothing to find him.

And Ardyn, in turn, would stop at nothing to kill them, for surely that is what the immortal had intended by luring them here.

The realization makes him dizzy, and not just because of the danger his friends are in. No, it is because _he_ is the one who put them in danger, who betrayed them to save his own life, and who can now do nothing to help them ( _you have nothing left with which to save your friends_ ). They will die for his imprudence, and he is not sure he will survive that, even for Noct.

“Hey.” He flinches away, and Gladio has the sense to stop from putting a hand on his shoulder, as the man had clearly intended to do. But that doesn’t stop the Shield from asking, his expression the very picture of concern, “Ignis. What happened to you?”

_Isn’t it obvious?_ he nearly replies because he remembers what he had looked like the last time he dared to look in a mirror – the unkempt hair and hollow eyes, the uncontrollable tremble of his lips, and, worst of all, the finger-shaped bruises that stood out vividly against the pale skin of his neck. What he actually says is, “You need to leave immediately.”

“Not without you,” Gladio says, the underlying determination hard to ignore. Gladio may be Noct’s Shield, but that does not preclude him from being fiercely protective of others as well. “I’m not blind, you know. What is he doing to you? What’s going _on_?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ignis snaps, but the sharpness of his tone is borne purely from fear. The sun is setting and the daemons will soon be coming, and Ardyn does not even need to wait for night to fall to arrive. Every second that his friend stays is a second more for the Accursed to find them, and as powerful as Gladio is, he does not stand a chance against the immortal.

(But that’s not all it is, is it? The thought of Gladio’s reaction if he has to say it, has to admit what Ardyn does to him each day… whether it is disgust or anger or _pity_ , Ignis cannot bear the thought of it.)

He watches his friend, who no doubt braved monsters and daemons to find him, and decides he is not above begging. He no longer has the luxury of shame, after all. “Please, Gladio. You have to _go_ before he-”

“I’m not leaving without you!” The Shield’s roar echoes through the empty city, and the two of them stare at each other, both breathing hard, neither willing to back down. Gladio is the first to offer a compromise though, repeating somewhat more calmly, “I’m _not_ leaving without you. Not after what Prompto and I went through to find you.”

Ignis swallows, although his mouth is so dry it is a meaningless gesture. He wants so very much to follow Gladio and escape this place forever, but he knows what his loyalty requires of him, hard as it is to say the words. “I can’t.”

He waits for Gladio to lose his temper again, or worse, to plead. But Gladio has always been far more perceptive than most people give him credit for, and Ignis is not entirely surprised when he says, “He’s threatening you, isn’t he?”

If only it was that easy. “Not me,” he breathes out. “Noct.”

“Shit.” Gladio shakes his head, but is no longer quite able to look Ignis in the eye. Ignis is not offended; in fact, he is grateful, for the last thing he wants is his friend’s sympathy, as he does not deserve it ( _I think you enjoy this_ ). “I should have known that bastard would do something like this.”

“Indeed, we should have,” he smiles, and although it is grim and wan, the gesture feels so odd seeing how he has not had anything to smile about in weeks. But there is something about how straightforward Gladio is that is… reassuring, even as the world comes to an end around them. Still, now is not the time for such selfishness, especially when it is his selfishness that has put his friend in danger in the first place. “Gladio. While I appreciate what you and Prompto have been through, you really must leave. If Ardyn finds you, I can’t stop him from-”

“You don’t have to say it,” Gladio cuts him off gently. “I get it.”

He knows that Gladio isn’t just talking about the danger that Ardyn poses. It is also about what _he_ has done, and the rush of relief that he does not have to explain himself is so overwhelming that it takes him a few steps to realize that Gladio has him by the crook of the elbow and is leading him away. It takes a few steps more to realize how _wrong_ that is, and he yanks his arm away, stumbling back as he demands, “What are you doing?”

“I already told you, I’m getting you out of here.”

“And I already told you, _I can’t_.” He hates how he resents Gladio for being so stubborn in trying to save him, but does the man not understand how hard it already is for him to say no? The last thing he wants is to stay here, but he made his choice years ago, when he had offered his hand to his prince. And Gladio, of all people, should understand that, having been _born_ into that life.

Gladio is starting to look as frustrated as he feels, the Shield always having been more open with his emotions. “Look, if you’re worried about Ardyn, don’t. With you back, we’ll figure out a way to take that bastard down. Prompto and I have already been working on that, gathering allies and-”

“You think a few extra bodies will help take down the Accursed?” he interrupts, in utter disbelief. Certainly, the end of the world would make anyone reckless, but Gladio has never been naïve. “And what if it doesn’t work? What if we don’t find a way? We cannot take that risk when Noct’s life is on the line.”

“Not everything has to be about the kid!” Gladio yells back. “Have you looked at yourself lately? Have you seen what he’s done to you? Whatever you’ve agreed to, it’s not _worth_ it.”

“Do you even hear yourself? This is _Noct_. You swore an oath to protect him, and now you propose….” Ignis’s voice trails off as he looks at his friend. He had so wanted to believe in him, but clearly that was just another mistake on his part. “Gladio. Where’s Prompto?”

He doesn’t want to ask. He does not really need to either because he already knows what the answer will be, and would have figured it out sooner if he was not so desperate. He tilts his head slightly, eyeing the other man who remains silent, and says with a composure he no longer thought possible, “So pretending to be two people is impossible even for the Accursed, I take it.”

Ardyn’s eyes, which may be the same shade as Gladio’s but will never again be mistaken for them, glint in open amusement. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to figure it out.”

Ignis takes in a deep breath, feeling not so much calm as cold. “Have I not been sufficiently entertaining to you these last few weeks, that you must play such games?”

“Apologies,” the immortal replies, although he clearly does not mean it. “I did not mean to suggest that you have been anything less than delightful. But it is good to change things up every once in a while, don’t you think?”

“Of course,” he agrees pleasantly, before his fingers curl around the hilts of his daggers and he plunges them both into Ardyn’s chest.

* * *

“Oh dear,” Ardyn laughs, as blood dribbles from his mouth. His breathing is labored, likely from a punctured lung, but it does not stop the bastard from _speaking_. “It looks like someone has finally lost their temper.”

Ignis disagrees. Losing his temper implies anger, but he does not feel much of anything right now as he pulls the daggers out with little ceremony, the weapons still sparking with Noct’s magic. The Accursed grunts, swaying just slightly, but remains on his feet. Still the man dares to smile, and why ever not, when Ignis can see through the torn strips of fabric that the flesh is already starting to knit itself back together, as if he needed another reminder of how futile his actions are.

It doesn’t stop him from imbuing one blade with fire and slashing another smile across Ardyn’s neck. This time the skin does not even need to mend itself, the flames doing the job by searing the wound shut, leaving it blackened and still smoldering. Yet even that is not enough to shut the immortal up, as Ardyn says with a long-suffering sigh, “Was that really necessary?”

He responds by plunging an icy dagger into the Accursed’s gut, watching stoically as the blood from the wound freezes before it can drip too far, possibly defeating the purpose of the attack. Ardyn staggers forward, but still he does not fall, although he does start to sound a bit irate as he says, “If you’re quite finished-”

The irritation disappears in an explosion of lightning that takes off half the immortal’s face, and finally the Accursed drops to his knees.

But precisely because the Accused is immortal, the grisly sight does not last long. Ignis feels nothing, not even disappointment, as the half-destroyed jaw bone starts to grow back, tendons and muscle snaking around it. It is not as if he was stupid enough to expect otherwise, which begs the question of what he even hopes to accomplish right now. He is not trying to run, nor is he even trying to kill. But seeing Gladio, having that hope of being free of all this dangled before him and then having to say no, over and over again… he might not be angry, but he does not need anger to give into that deep primal desire to hurt, to make Ardyn feel _his_ pain for once. It does not matter that the effects are only temporary, that it is not enough compared to what the Accursed has done to him – he simply wants the Accursed to _suffer_.

Almost mechanically, he readies himself to land another strike, but before he can raise his weapon a hand shoots out to grab his wrist. Ardyn pulls it close to his still healing face, which is a gore of blood and exposed tissue, and hisses, “Enough.”

The daggers disappear in a shower of red. Without blinking, Ignis instantly reaches his free hand into the armiger for a polearm, only to slam into what feels like a wall. The psychic pain of it feels like something else has cracked open, and he turns on the Accursed, who has not released his wrist even as the man gets back to his feet, and snarls, “What did you _do_?”

“Well, I could hardly allow you to keep stabbing me,” Ardyn says in a way that suggests _Ignis_ is the one who is being patently unreasonable. The immortal’s voice drops slightly, and there is that darkness again, and not just because the sun is starting to set. “The Crystal may have rejected me, but that does not mean I’ve forgotten how to use its magic. Or how to stop others from using what does not belong to them.”

Ignis reels back, as it feels like something within him has _snapped_ , cutting him off from the king’s magic… from _Noct_. He’s lived with it for so long that he no longer even noticed its presence until now, when all he can feel is its absence, leaving him empty and confused. But he does not stay empty for long, as an all-encompassing fury that he has spent his entire life trying to resist floods in, occupying every corner of his mind.

He lashes out, clawing at the Accursed’s newly healed skin. He manages one deep scratch before Ardyn grabs hold of that hand as well, pulling him close. Even through his blinding rage, he can sense the daemons starting to stir around them as the sun rapidly disappears behind the horizon. Despite being so close to their prey, the daemons do not dare to come near, wary not of his pitiful aggression but the Accursed who has rendered him so ineffectual with a few casual gestures, and that somehow enrages him all the more.

What he feels is meaningless though, as the Accursed simply repeats, “Enough.” But clearly the immortal is no longer amused by his struggles, easily pulling Ignis’s wrists together so that he can hold them in one hand that is wet with blood. With his now free hand, Ardyn summons the darkness, barely waiting for it to finish forming before he pulls Ignis through.

There is that moment, which lasts both forever and not at all, before he finds himself standing in his own bedroom. Ardyn shoves him hard, causing him to fall forward, his legs hitting the edge of his desk. He turns to see Ardyn striding away, but by the time he is able to regain his balance and rush after the immortal, he ends up with a door being slammed in his face.

He quickly goes for the handle, twisting it so hard he might break it off, but it does not budge even though the door has never locked from the _outside_. He resorts to pushing as hard as he can at the door, but the Accursed has done something to keep it from opening, barring him in like a wild animal, too dangerous to be let loose.

He should use the moment to compose himself, to calm his emotions and consider what to do next. But logic no longer has any role in his life, and he slams his hands on the heavy wood over and over again, not caring that it accomplishes nothing nor when the skin on his hands splits and comes away bloody. “How _dare_ you, you bastard. You _absolute bastard_.”

“My mother was more high-borne than yours, I am certain,” Ardyn replies through the door.

The fact that the man is simply standing out there, listening to him break down makes him want to scream. Quite possibly, he does, as he demands, “Face me, damn you. You owe me that much, you _coward_.”

“You would not want that,” Ardyn says, after a long silence (on the immortal’s end only, for Ignis continues to bang at and yell through the door). “Trust me, this is more for your benefit than mine.”

“As if I have reason to trust you on anything,” he snaps, punctuating his point with another fist to the door. There is a splatter of blood, but he is too far gone to care, as everything that has happened in the past agonizing days builds to an uncontrollable explosion of violence that he has finally given into, only to discover that he can do _nothing with it_. He hates Ardyn, but not nearly as much as he hates his inability to express that loathing with anything other than the words that were once his greatest weapon. “I will _kill_ you, do you hear me? No matter what it takes, I will **end** you.”

“If only.” The words are so soft that he might have imagined them, but all that matters is the fact that the door _still does not open_. Instead, despite his heavy breathing from the exertion of despising someone so completely, he can hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps heading away, and he continues to spit curses and threats long after Ardyn has abandoned him.

* * *

The door unlocks with an audible click. The only way for it to be more of a scene would be if the door was to swing open on its own, but apparently even the Accursed has limits when it comes to sheer melodrama.

For several minutes, Ignis just glares at the door, not moving from where he is sitting on the bed. He seriously considers acting like the child that Ardyn had accused him of being, stubbornly refusing to move when summoned. Still, facing the man while standing on his own two feet seems preferable to being manhandled again, so he eventually pushes himself up. His hands still hurt from the beating he inflicted on them, and there is a part of his soul that feels so empty from being cut off from Noct’s familiar magic, but those pains are nothing compared to what he has already endured.

It is likely nothing compared to what he will be facing either.

When he steps into the hallway, there is no obvious sign of where he is expected to go. But he can feel where the darkness is strongest, and while it is tempting to ignore that as well, he doesn’t. Ardyn is not so stupid as to believe that he failed to pinpoint the immortal’s location, and Ignis is not so stupid as to think he can delay the inevitable. Sooner or later, he will have to face the Accursed, and he suspects that the later he puts it off, the worse it will go (if that is even possible).

He is not terribly surprised when he ends up in the throne room.

The hideous corpses are still there, their sightless eyes somehow seeing him all too clearly. And just beyond them is Ardyn, seated on the throne as if he deserves to be there.

“Boy,” the immortal greets, legs crossed and right elbow resting on the throne, head cocked to the side as he smiles down at Ignis. “Calmed down finally, have you?”

Not in the least, the seething anger buried just beneath his skin. If this is the rage that Ardyn feels all the time, it is a wonder that the Accursed is able to project any semblance of sanity, although that hardly justifies what the man does. Still, to Ardyn’s point, he is willing to pretend for now, as it is the least of the humiliations he has suffered as of late. “If you desire an apology, you need only demand one.”

… perhaps pretending to be calm will be a touch more difficult than he anticipated.

Ardyn does not reprimand him for that, instead humming thoughtfully. “But then you will not mean it.”

“And since when has that mattered?” While the Accursed may make him beg for the courtesy of participating in his own rape, the man has never complained of his lack of acting skills.

The immortal inspects him, as if debating whether to strike him down or to take him where he stands. In the end, he settles on neither, instead leaning back in the throne that does not belong to him. “And to think I had believed I had broken your spirit,” he murmurs, more to himself than his audience of one. “It is good to know that after two millennia, I can still be surprised.”

Ignis would not know much about that, so he keeps his silence. After a moment, Ardyn crooks his fingers lazily, beckoning him forward. “By my side, if you will; I have no interest in craning my neck for this conversation. You may treat my request as an order if you like, since you enjoy playing the martyr so.”

He enjoys none of this, but ascends the steps regardless. Their contract demands nothing less. Both the dead and the dying watch him with rapt attention, and when he stops before the Accursed, he stares at the spot to the left of the throne, where a young boy once waited to be introduced. That was the last time he had been so close to the throne, and while he had expected to do so again once Noct became king, he never imagined it would be in such circumstances.

“Your hands,” Ardyn says abruptly, frowning at them. Ignis frowns back, not sure why it matters that his hands are a mess, streaked with both his own blood and the immortal’s. “They will get infected if you do not clean them properly.”

“Why do you care?” His question is less bitter than wary, seeing how the Accursed has shown little concern for his well-being up to now. He’s learned his lesson several times over that he cannot trust the immortal’s intentions, no matter how innocent they appear to be.

“Well, it is difficult to torture a dead body,” Ardyn says dryly, before the man laughs at his open disgust. “Isn’t that what you expected me to say? It seems to comfort you, to think of me as a monster.”

If the man is not a monster, he certainly exults in playing the part. But soon he finds it impossible to say anything as Ardyn abruptly summons a _medical kit_ from his armiger and begins taking out supplies, seemingly unaware of Ignis’s gawking. He is so entranced by the farcical display that he doesn’t pull away in time, and Ardyn is able to easily take hold of his left wrist and tug it close.

“I knew something about healing once upon a time,” the immortal says by way of explanation, although it seems impossible to believe that Ardyn would ever use such knowledge to help anyone other than himself. But it is with practiced motions that he pries Ignis’s hand open, before picking up a gauze pad and wiping the blood away. Ignis hisses as the gesture, careful as it is, reopens some of the cuts, but Ardyn ignores it, focusing instead on cleaning the wound thoroughly before pouring half a potion over it. Even the color of this is so unlike Noct’s, a pulsating violet that seems to bubble on his skin before sinking in. The healing magic spreads quickly through his flesh, and in a matter of seconds, all traces of the violence he has inflicted upon them have disappeared.

“The other,” Ardyn orders with the impatient curtness of a doctor, and wordlessly he obeys. The Accursed, however, does not feel like being silent anymore, as he comments mildly, “You tried to kill me.”

“There’s no need for histrionics,” he replies, not quite able to hold back his disdain. “You cannot die. Only Noctis can kill you, or so you have claimed repeatedly.”

He half-expects Ardyn to hurt him, and perhaps he would even welcome it. It seems logical, at least, to be punished for lashing out. Instead, Ardyn simply continues to clean his right hand, inspecting it once more before reaching for what is left of the potion. Although the potion takes the pain away, Ignis remains tense as he waits for the immortal to reveal what will be demanded of him this time, yet even he does not expect what Ardyn says, “I suppose your actions were warranted, given the little trick I played on you. Will you forgive me?”

Ignis laughs, the sound almost shrill in deference to the sheer absurdity of the request, before he realizes that Ardyn is being _sincere_. He stops and stares at the immortal, in utter disbelief that the man could even expect this of him. “You cannot be serious.”

But to his growing horror, it appears that the man is in fact serious, as the Accursed gets off the throne. Before Ignis can fully debate the virtues of fighting versus fleeing, the choice is taken out of his hands as Ardyn easily maneuvers him so that their positions are reversed, before pushing him onto the throne – onto _Noct’s_ throne.

Immediately he tries to stand, for it feels like a betrayal for him to sit there because the true king – _his_ king – remains trapped in the Crystal. But he barely makes it an inch before darkness seeps out, dragging him back down before securely binding his wrists and neck to the throne. Logically, he knows he is too weak to fight this, especially with his access to the armiger still being cut off. But again, logic falls on deaf ears because he cannot help but fight desperately against the restraints, his breathing fast and panicky as he tries to escape the one place he would _never_ belong.

Fingers rest on his forehead, before tracing a gentle line across his brow. “Very nice,” Ardyn whispers, as he looks down at Ignis. “Seeing you on the throne, it is no surprise that they chose you for this.”

He stops his struggling in order to stare at the Accursed, and just barely manages to rasp, “What?”

Ardyn sighs, as if exasperated by the need to explain his insanity. “You think his father did not know that Noctis was the Chosen King? You think the Crystal would not have shown him his son’s destiny? Why else would he be so determined for his son to have a normal life, while you were required to learn all that was necessary to govern the country?”

“I was never required-”

His protest is cut off by the one hand on his thigh, the other going for his belt, and the stomach-churning realization that even now, Ardyn will require this of him. But even that cannot stop him from hearing Ardyn continue, “Never explicitly, I am sure, but did that ever stop you? Who was the one who went to all the meetings, who read the reports? Who became privy to the innermost workings of the kingdom? Who did all of that while his charge was permitted to playact at being a regular child?”

He bites back a sharp gasp as the immortal unbuttons his trousers, but even that will not keep him from defending his friend. “Noct knew his duties. He would never have evaded them.”

“The Chosen King’s only duty is to _die_ ,” the Accursed replies curtly, and his eyes are that demonic gold. “King Regis knew that, and understood that the bloodline must end. He also knew that someone would have to rise up and lead. Who better than the prince’s advisor, who would know everything there is to know about ruling? How can you not see that you were groomed for this?”

Because. This is not like the last time, when Ardyn’s words made him want to give up in despair, for it revealed the ugly truth that he had wanted to ignore. For while there is truth in Ardyn’s words now, he rejects any fate in which Noct must die to save the world. Even if King Regis had expected it, even if the fates had decreed it, he will never permit it to happen. “I will not rule,” he promises softly. “I will save him, no matter what it takes.”

Ardyn gazes at him, before his mouth splits into a smile that is somehow both derisive and sad. “If only you could see yourself like this, so regal and assured. Why, when you are like this, even I wish to believe you. But you cannot fight the gods, boy. Believe me, it will only end in tears.”

“That does not stop you.”

“And look at what I have become,” Ardyn points out. “Look at what defying fate has led _you_ to. You could have been king, but instead you whore yourself out for the sake of a condemned man.”

Ignis stares out into the throne room, from this hallowed place. It is a view that was never meant for the likes of him, no matter what anyone might have intended him to become. It is a view that he does not want. “Better that than to be made king by virtue of failing in my duties.”

The smile fades ever so slightly, but the Accursed covers for it well, shaking his head in mock despair. “You and your foolish loyalty. It’d make my heart bleed, if I still had one. Still, if you insist on paying the price, I will do my part and collect on it. It seems the least I can do for you, _your majesty_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although the vast majority of this chapter went exactly as I had planned, the very end went in a completely different direction. To put it delicately, Ignis took one look at what was supposed to happen, flipped me off, and did his own thing. And I really can’t begrudge him that.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Ardyn,” he says finally, and the name feels foreign on his tongue, despite the man being at the forefront of all his thoughts (fears). “What happened to you?”_
> 
> _“Two millennia is a long time,” Ardyn shrugs, not even bothering to feign ignorance. “The darkness I took in might have something to do with it as well.”_

Ignis is just sitting up, one foot already on the ground and the other so close to joining it, when the Accursed takes hold of his forearm. His entire body stiffens, but he does not look back, keeping his eyes straight ahead as he tries to steady his breathing.

“Stay.”

The order is soft, almost gentle. If it was anyone else, Ignis might have thought it a plea. But this is Ardyn, who never truly asks for anything because he does not need to, for he truly believes that the world owes him a debt that can only be repaid through blood.

Ardyn also never tells him to stay, when the immortal finishes with him. Usually the man ignores him, permitting him to flee, although sometimes the man goes so far as to outright throw him out of whatever room they happen to be in. Needless to say, this request is unexpected, which makes him wonder what torment Ardyn has in mind this time around.

The thought is pointless, of course. For one thing, simply being near Ardyn is already a torment in and of itself, the man’s presence a constant threat. After all, they both know that whatever the Accursed wants from him, he will give because that is what he has agreed to. And that is the other thing, is it not? Even if Ardyn’s aim is to hurt him (which seems less a hypothetical and more a given), he bargained away his right to say no, so what does it matter what the man’s motivation is if the outcome will be the same regardless?

Pointless as it may be, Ignis cannot banish the thought. It may be easier in the short term not to care what Ardyn hopes to gain from this uncharacteristic demand, but he has never been good at accepting things blindly. From a young age, he has always needed to know the _why_ , an insatiable intellectual curiosity that had served him well in performing his duties. Its value now, admittedly, is more debatable, but it is not something that he can simply turn off on a whim.

Besides, he still cannot shake the feeling that it _does_ matter. While so much of Ardyn’s behavior can be written off as simple cruelty, he does not think that the immortal himself is so easily defined. Still, after all this time, he does not think he is any closer to understanding the Accursed, which is quite unfair given how expertly Ardyn reads him, pulling apart his deepest fears and weaknesses and using them against him.

But for once, Ardyn has miscalculated. Perhaps it was supposed to break him, the realization that Noctis was never intended to be anything more than a sacrifice at the altar of the gods, rendering his own sacrifices meaningless. Yet even if King Regis did not believe that his son would live to see the sun again, Ignis is not so willing to accept what the fates have decreed. He will do whatever it takes to keep Noct safe, and to that end, had finally returned to the library in the last few weeks, searching for answers on the Starscourge, the Accursed, and the Chosen King.

It had taken him longer than it should have, to step up and perform his _true_ duties, and that bothers him, of course. But it is no longer enough to stop him, for he is no longer afraid to admit his own weaknesses. Ardyn has seen to that, forcing him to confront the truths that he would rather hide from.

With respect to the library, he’d had to first understand why the thought of returning to the library had hurt so, before he could face it. For most of his life, the library had been a place of comfort, where he could go to be at peace. But that had been twisted when Ardyn had found him there, had given him the chance to run for the sole purpose of making him say yes to staying, yes to submitting, _yes_ to doing whatever it was that the immortal wanted of him. Despite that arguably being the least of what the Accursed has done to him since, his mind had recoiled at the thought of returning to that place, where this living nightmare had started.

A part of him had still recoiled, when he had first made himself go back. But rather than wall that part of him away, he accepted it and forced himself to move past it, a task that turned out to be just as difficult as when he had forced himself to walk past the threshold from the hallway into the library. He hadn’t managed to stay long, grabbing a few books before retreating to the kitchens, which thus far have been too beneath the Accursed’s attention for the immortal to ever visit (other than to drop off the occasional food supplies, anyway). But he had managed it, and while it was nothing to congratulate himself over, it was a much-needed step to being of any use to Noct’s long-term prospects. Because if he truly wants to keep his friend safe, he has to make sure not to lose _himself_ , to not give into the fear and self-loathing that threatens to sweep him away.

But Ardyn does not like to make it easy, as the Accursed so aptly demonstrates when he says, “Ignis.”

His breath catches, and not because of the warning tone or how painfully tight Ardyn’s grip has become. The man does not often use his name, and in fact the last time he had heard his name on someone else’s lips was when Ardyn had masqueraded as his friend. He quickly shoves that memory to the side, before it can hurt him again (to be so hopeful, only to have it all _ripped away_ ), forcing himself to return his attention to the here and now, as much as he would like to pretend to be anywhere else.

But willful ignorance is not how he will help Noct, so he whispers, “Apologies.” It is somewhat more bearable if he pretends that he is saying sorry to his king, rather than the Accursed.

He permits himself one longing look at the door, before he lays back down under the covers, next to his personal demon. Despite being prepared for it, he cannot stop himself from flinching when the hand lets go of his arm, only for one cold arm to drape over his shoulder and pull him close. His breathing is ragged and his heart is beating so fast that the immortal must feel it, what with the way they’re pressed together.

Ardyn, by contrast, has no heartbeat, and although he occasionally mimes the act of breathing for dramatic effect, the immortal is not bothering with such histrionics now. The man is as still as a corpse, which is ironic given how death continues to elude him. As for Ignis, well, all he can do is close his eyes and try to relax, although he cannot imagine he will be getting any sleep in this position.

* * *

As it turns out, he doesn’t get any sleep that night.

He does, however, get the answers he has been seeking the next day.

* * *

When the book slips from his hands, Ignis is not the least bit surprised that Ardyn is already there to pick it up. His mind might still be reeling from what he has learned, but he is not so far gone as to not recognize that the immortal has been watching him this entire time, waiting for him to discover the truth.

“So,” the Accursed observes, his tone deceptively casual as he puts the book back in its rightful place, not even bothering to read it. He already knows what is in it. “It looks like you’ve found my mystery man after all.”

Ignis swallows, trying to reconcile what he has read with the immortal standing before him. Surprisingly, it is not as difficult as it should be, and not simply because he remembers how efficiently the man had healed his hands. But as he pieces it all together – the warnings, the stories, the fixation on loyalty and how much it would take someone to _break_ – he is starting to think that the Accursed has not been subtle at all about what he desires.

“Ardyn,” he says finally, and the name feels foreign on his tongue, despite the man being at the forefront of all his thoughts ( _fears_ ). In fact, he does not remember having said the name once since they entered into their arrangement, but it seems the least he can do now, to acknowledge the name that another has tried to remove from all of history. “What happened to you?”

“Two millennia is a long time,” Ardyn shrugs, not even bothering to feign ignorance. “The darkness I took in might have something to do with it as well.”

_He gave and gave and_ gave _, until he was barely more than a shell_. But that was a lie, was it not? According to the book, the one that finally revealed the truth of how the Founder King came to power, the healer had not given, but had instead taken, accepting the darkness from others so that they might live. He had done it at the cost of his own soul, absorbing countless numbers of daemons to save his own people. And instead of thanking him for it, they had turned on him, calling him a monster and crowning another in his place.

And it is not the only lie, he thinks distantly. He remembers the voice in Zegnautus Keep, the one who had warned him of the Accursed’s ill intentions. _Blessed was the man for the throne—yet he, so impure of heart, was denied by the Stone and cast into ignominy_. There was truth there, but it was not the whole truth, a simple omission changing the healer’s legacy entirely. For that impurity was the product not of greed, as it was so implied, but generosity. Ardyn Lucis Caelum had been a kind man, beloved by his people for what he was willing to sacrifice for them. In return, the Astrals had banished him and the people had cursed him, and both had done everything in their power to erase him entirely. Where they had failed at that, they twisted what he had done, until the healer had become the very demon that they had made him out to be.

“So there is nothing left of the man you once were?” Ignis asks, although it must seem a foolish question. Any consideration Ardyn may have had for others was stripped away long ago, and it is no wonder that the immortal treats everyone else as disposable pawns, when that is how he himself was treated.

“There will always be something left of that fool,” Ardyn replies. “It serves as a helpful reminder of why I act the way I do.”

“It hardly justifies it.”

Ardyn laughs at that, a bitter, painful sound. “You think I care? You think that it matters what anyone thinks?” The immortal steps closer, and Ignis somehow manages to stand his ground, despite the survival instinct telling him to flee. “I saved them. I took their darkness and made it my own, even when the pain kept me unconscious for days, or when it made me vomit up blood turned black with their foulness. Do you know what it is like, to have daemons within you, demanding to slaughter when you were trying to heal? Knowing that with each person you cured, another daemon would be added to the chorus, ripping your mind apart? I endured all of that for them, and for what?”

“Because you were to be their king,” Ignis replies. “It is the duty that is owed to one’s people.”

“Is it now?” He doesn’t try to resist, when hands grab his wrists and push him against the wall, the Accursed somehow towering over him even though only a few inches separate their height. Whether it is the Starscourge or the immortal’s personal fury, the man is utterly terrifying, yet Ignis does not feel any fear. He can only stare at the man, whose every false breath sounds like a death rattle – rather fitting for one who has skirted the line between life and death for thousands of years. “And what of the duty they owed to me? You, who justifies your every action with duty and loyalty, tell me this. I gave them everything I had, so why did they make me _this_?”

“They were frightened.” It hardly seems enough, but isn’t that the way it is with most explanations when it comes to the worst of human behavior? “You frightened them with what you had become.”

Ardyn grins, and it is twisted and humorless and wrong, just like the man himself. “And how about you? Are you scared of me too?”

“Yes,” he says honestly, for he dreads the man every moment of every day, and for good reason. “But not because of what you are. Only because of what you have done.”

“It sounds like you are judging me,” the Accursed accuses. “Would you have been any different if you were in my place? Would your precious Noct? You think the Chosen King would have fared better, would have managed to remain _kind_ after being banished by his own people?”

He wants to say yes, to separate Noctis from his sad, demented ancestor. But can he, in all honesty? What Ardyn has gone through would break most people, the pain of being abandoned by everyone for the sin of trying to save them. Yet if there is one thing he has learned through this ordeal, it is that he would do anything for his friend. He likes to think that if it had been Noct, he would have stood by his side, as would Gladio and Prompto. And perhaps that might have been enough. Perhaps not, once they had died and abandoned their king in a different way. He is glad he will never have to find out.

But this is not about Noct. It never has been, for Ardyn had said it himself – his friend is only a means to an end, a necessity for the immortal to obtain revenge against gods who deserve nothing less. A way to die, to end the pain and madness that haunts Ardyn so, which is why the immortal tries to spread it to others. But is that all there is to it? He inclines his head ever so slightly, not permitting himself to look away from the immortal, as he asks, “What is it that you want?”

“I thought you already knew,” Ardyn mocks, yet somehow it seems more defensive than disdainful. “You told me before that I seek death. Or are you not so certain of that anymore?”

“You can want more than one thing,” he points out. “If all you desire is death, then you have no reason to keep me here.”

The Accursed tries to fake boredom by the question, but is betrayed by how his hold tightens on Ignis’s wrists, until it feels like the bones are moments away from breaking. “Why do you think any of this is about you, boy? You presume much, if you think anyone will remember you once this is over.”

“Yet you chose me.”

“Perhaps I pitied you,” Ardyn replies, and Ignis wonders who he is trying to convince. “As I told you before, you needed this, to give yourself purpose. Or will you try to deny that again?”

No. There has been too much denial already, and look at what it has turned them into. But if he will accept his own truths, than the Accursed must be made to do the same, for it is only fair (not that fairness has a role to play in this world of darkness). “You mean to suggest that you do this because you felt sorry for me, while at the same time proclaiming that you care for no one? Even you must see that such an explanation rings false.”

“You truly are arrogant,” Ardyn says, looking quite bemused, as he releases Ignis’s wrists in a futile attempt to match his words. “You think that I care for you?”

“Of course not.” The healer may once have cared for everyone, to his own detriment, but the Accursed cares for no one, not even himself. “But you wanted something from me, didn’t you?”

“Entertainment,” the Accursed reminds him coldly. “Although you are providing little of that at the moment, I think. Perhaps we must reconsider this little arrangement of ours, if all you intend to do is speak of things that you know nothing about.”

By this point, Ignis is afraid even to blink, as if breaking eye contact for even a split second will cause him to lose his nerve. Because honestly, he does not know what is compelling him to push this point. If Ardyn wants to act like none of this matters, then why shouldn’t he? The immortal has earned that right. But Ignis has earned this as well, so he says, “You could have made me leave. You could have killed me, or pretended that I did not exist. Instead, you kept me close and whispered your secrets because you wanted _someone_ to know that what you do is justifiable.”

“What are you saying?” the Accursed spits out, baring his teeth like a cornered animal with no choice but to fight back. “You think I desire forgiveness? What use would I have for that?”

“You did ask for it.” And when Ardyn cannot respond to that, he continues, despite himself. “You told me you did not seek absolution, but is that not what this has always been about? You wanted someone to see you for what you truly are, a man who was wronged, who lost everything for the crime of helping others. You wanted someone to recognize that you deserved not scorn for your actions, but loyalty and compassion. It has been two thousand years, but even you admit that there is still that human inside of you. Can you really deny that human wants to be treated as someone who still matters, even after what you have become?”

The immortal has gone still, as still as he was in that bed when he had told – no, _asked_ Ignis to say. He does not move, does not blink, does not _breathe_ – he simply stands there, staring at him as if he does not understand how this can be happening. And once again, Ignis has to wonder if Ardyn has become so lost in his own lies that he cannot accept what he wants anymore.

“Perhaps you are right,” Ardyn murmurs eventually, and it is Ignis’s turn to go still in surprise. “And perhaps it is time that I rid myself of that humanity you speak so knowledgeably of.”

Before he can even start to understand what the Accursed is saying, the immortal lunges at him.

Once again, it is the years of training that saves him, although just barely. It’s too late for him to avoid the strike completely, but he is able to turn his head just in time so that he escapes the brunt of it. But the Accursed is far stronger than any mere mortal, and even a glancing blow is more than enough to send him sprawling, his head spinning with pain as he lands hard on his hands and knees. Before he can try to push himself up onto his feet, the entire weight of the Accursed is on him, forcing him down as cold fingers dig into his arms, pulling them back so far that Ignis is afraid not of dislocated shoulders, but of entire _limbs_ being ripped off.

Fear surges through him, a fear that he has never felt before, even when Ardyn has used the armiger against him. The Accursed may not wield any weapons now, but in the place of the immortal’s usual lazy contempt is something far more lethal, and Ignis has never been so terrified of death. Because even when the Ring’s flames were licking up his skin, turning him to ash, that fear was not of death but of failure, fear that he had not done right by his king. This is something else entirely, something more base and animalistic and utterly overwhelming.

In a sheer panic, he kicks out blindly, at the same time flinging himself forward in a desperate bid to dislodge the immortal. It is awkward and a far cry from his usual battle style, but elegance is not necessary here, only effectiveness, and he manages at least that when the heel of his shoe slams into solid flesh. He thinks he hears a rib snap, before it is drowned out by the Accursed’s bellow of pain, but the only thing that matters is that the grip on his arms loosens just enough for him to slip out so that he can scramble desperately to his feet and _run_.

Yet even as he scampers out of the library, still caught in the throes of utter terror, he knows he has nowhere to run to. He is bound to this place so long as Noct’s life is on the line (the daemons prowling outside the Citadel do not help matters much either). But he also knows with chilling certainty that he cannot stay and face Ardyn either because the Accursed _will_ kill him if he gets his hands on him, so the only thing he can do is try to run _long enough_ until the man’s sanity returns.

If it ever does return.

(If there was any sanity left to begin with.)

He races down the Citadel’s hallways blindly, no destination in mind because the only that that matters is getting away. His movements are clumsy in his desperation, and he has no idea how long he can keep this up, before exhaustion catches up to him. Adrenaline can only take one so far, and he’s running out of it quickly, the fear sapping his endurance away like poison. The part of him that is still coherent tries to convince him to pause and think things through, but it is quickly shot down. While there is no way of explaining it, he knows without question that he has to keep moving or Ardyn will find him. Even now, he can sense the immortal hunting him, and if the Accursed was in any functional state of mind, the man would have found him already and taken him down. Luckily, it seems the insane rage is slowing the immortal down, even as it powers him beyond imagination.

But not slow enough, as Ignis suddenly runs straight into the Accursed. Blackened eyes, sunk deeply into the deathly pale skin, stare at him, and darkness runs down the immortal’s face to splash onto the ground.

For his part, Ignis does not bother with staring, immediately throwing himself to the side to get past the monster. But faster than is humanly possible, the Accursed’s hand whips out to grab him by the neck, before dragging him along. Ignis nearly chokes as he loses his balance, rendering him dead weight at best, but Ardyn doesn’t slow down or even spare him a glance.

“Stop,” he wheezes, amazed that he can say anything with the way the immortal is crushing his windpipe. His own hands scrabble frantically at the one on his neck, but Ardyn doesn’t even seem to feel his nails cutting into the immortal’s skin. “ _Stop_.”

He’s not even sure what he’s asking for, but it doesn’t matter as his pleas fall on deaf ears. All he can do is try not to suffocate as Ardyn slams open the nearest door, before hauling him in. He lacks the air to follow or to fight back, and can do nothing as he is practically hurled onto the bed, before the immortal climbs on top of him, this time making sure to pin his legs down so that he cannot kick out again. His eyes dart about desperately, looking for some sort of weapon, before the entire world seems to stutter to a stop when he realizes where they are. For even now, facing madness and death, he _recognizes_ this room, a room he has spent so many nights in when Noct had a nightmare and begged him to keep the prince company. _Not here, anywhere but here_ , he wants to beg, for how much more of his life does Ardyn intend to desecrate?

But the Accursed is too far gone to request anything of, and all he can do is try not to cringe as hands pull his face close, compelling him to stare into eyes that are wild with hate for everything in the world.

“This was supposed to be mine,” The Accursed snarls, grip tightening painfully. “ _You_ should have been mine.”

And then Ardyn is kissing him, the gesture made sloppy by the immortal’s violent rage. It is a violence borne not from loathing, but a desperate, jealous need for what the Accursed was deprived of by the gods.

Ignis permits it to happen purely out of shock, for Ardyn has never done this to him before. But he can only endure it for so long before instinct takes over, and then he is biting down as hard as he can. The Accursed staggers back with a roar, and he uses the opening to squirm out from beneath the man. But this time, he does not get far, as one hand grabs hold of his left wrist and _snaps_ it, making him scream. The other grabs his shoulder and slams him into the wall, and when he blinks everything is blurry, except for the monster’s face. That, he can see in perfect, horrifying detail. The immortal’s lip is split open from where Ignis had bit him, but what pours from the wound is not blood, but that inky black darkness.

And then the Accursed is kissing him again, and cold fingers dig into his chin until his lips part, and he can feel the dark liquid being forced into his mouth. It tastes like nothing, but it burns as it goes down, destroying everything it touches as it sears a path through his flesh. Just as the healer had once did, he tries to vomit it up, but it refuses to go as it instead spreads through his body, making him scream all over again.

He is still screaming, as clawed hands rip at his clothing, not bothering with the niceties of buttons and zippers. It’s not just fabric that is torn off though; he can feel the lightning pain of nails gouging through his skin, a unique pain from that which is coursing through his veins. And when the Accursed finally pulls away from his mouth, it is only to bite at his shoulder, ripping a new wound open for the darkness to seep into. Despite the agony, Ignis still tries to break free, but that futile act only earns him a heavy strike to the chest that breaks a few of _his_ ribs, although he will not be recovering from it as quickly as the immortal had.

He closes his eyes because it is too much, far too much. If there was any kindness in the world, the pains would at least become indistinguishable, rather than hurting him in their own unique, excruciating ways. If the gods had any mercy, they would let him pass out from the unimaginable agony. If he could have anything from this life, he would be _dead_ because there is no conceivable way that he will be surviving this, so why endure it any longer? Yet somehow he remains awake and so damnably aware as the Accursed spreads his legs apart, and begins to force himself in. He doesn’t even know how it is possible, except apparently it _is_ , and he throws his head back and continues to scream until he has no voice left.

When finally, _finally_ , it stops, he is nearly delirious, to the point that he does not know if he is imagining the hand caressing his cheek, which is wet with the tears that he did not remember shedding. What can only be his own insanity causes him to open his eyes, and he sees color returning to Ardyn’s ghostly white cheeks, the gold irises fading back to amber, but still the darkness drips from the man’s broken lip. A drop of it falls, landing on one of the many open cuts littering his skin, sizzling like hellfire as it seeps into his blood.

And that, thankfully, is enough to tip him over the edge as he plunges into unconsciousness, or – one could only hope – death itself.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“If you will not give me what I want, then what use do I have of you?”_
> 
> _“None, I suppose.”_

Ignis wakes up screaming.

The Accursed does not even blink, barely bothers to glance down at the person he is currently hunched over, as the immortal’s fingers mercilessly pry open a gaping wound on his chest. Despite what he has already suffered, despite the darkness still pulsing violently through his entire body, this newest violation is beyond excruciating as the immortal presses ice cold lips against the torn flesh.

His attempts to wrench himself away are frustrated by his own pitiable lack of strength. He thinks such weakness can be forgiven because by all rights, he should be _dead_ , if not for the fact that the Accursed has never felt constrained by the demands of reality. Having resisted his own death for so long, it is no real surprise that he would now thwart Ignis’s as well.

Living like this is no blessing though, as even the simple act of screaming becomes too much and he is reduced to gasping sobs. The immortal still has not even acknowledged that he is awake and so damnably _aware_ , focused instead on what appears to be an attempt to draw out all of his blood from his veins. But when the Accursed finally does pull away and deigns to look down at him, it is not blood that drips from the immortal’s mouth, but that pitch-black darkness. A tongue darts out to lick at it, as golden eyes flutter shut for just a second before the immortal swallows the corruption, and he thinks he sees Ardyn shudder as the darkness returns to its rightful place.

He thinks, but he does not have the ability to comprehend, and then the Accursed is bending down towards him again. Instinctively, his hands reach up in a pathetic attempt to try and keep the immortal away, but the Accursed just catches his wrists before they can even make contact. Then the immortal’s hold tightens, crushing the broken bones of his left wrist, and sends him fleeing back to the welcoming embrace of unconsciousness.

* * *

The next time he wakes up, he feels nothing.

There is no pain. When he finally sits up and dares to look down at himself, there is not an injury to be seen; even the scars he had obtained through years of single-minded dedication to the throne are gone. His fingers lightly touch the place that, not so long ago, had been an oozing ruin of flesh. A part of him expects the illusion to fall away, revealing skin torn asunder, but it is as smooth and perfect as it appears to be. His right hand drifts downwards, feeling at his ribs, which are clearly no longer broken (but then why is it still so hard to breathe?).

There is no darkness. Instead, his insides feel almost hollow at the loss, as if something more than what never belonged within him has been taken. It makes him feel empty and a little less human, for every human has some amount of darkness within them (and some far more than others).

Lastly, there is no fear. He is too tired to feel any sort of emotion, really, and that holds true even when he realizes that he is not alone here, in Noct’s old bedroom. Just an arm’s reach away, the Accursed sits in the chair that Ignis used to occupy when he watched over his sleeping prince, and it is a role reversal that he does not entirely appreciate.

He is in no position to do anything about it, so he doesn’t. His hand slips back down to his side as he continues to lay there, waiting patiently for the immortal to say something. But for once, the Accursed is not in a chatty mood, so Ignis croaks out, “Why?”

The question, like so much of what he does these days, is painfully inadequate. It does not even begin to encompass all the things he wants to know – why not let him die, why heal him at all, why take the darkness from him rather than letting him rot from the inside out? – but it is all he can manage when his throat feels like it has been scraped dry.

Still, Ardyn does not reply. Or at least, Ardyn does not reply to _him_. In the silence of the room, he can hear the immortal muttering, but the words are not directed at him, and they are not loud enough for him to understand. Still, from the man’s tone, it seems almost like he is _arguing_ with himself, and Ignis wonders if perhaps the Accursed has yet to regain his sanity.

But sane or not, it is clear that Ardyn has saved him, pulling him from the brink of death and taking the darkness back from him. Whether that is an act of mercy, and whether Ignis has any reason to be thankful, remain to be seen, but it still leaves the question of why the Accursed would do such a thing at all when the immortal was the one who had nearly killed him in the first place.

He swallows, the simple act suddenly more difficult than felling a Red Giant single-handedly, and tries again. “Ar-”

“Don’t,” the Accursed cuts off. The immortal does not sound angry though, but as tired as he is, and it appears taking the darkness is as difficult as it had been when Ardyn still suffered the indignity of being human. Perhaps even more so, given the number of daemons swarming in his mind now. Is that who Ardyn is arguing with? Are the daemons within him howling for blood, just as the daemons who roam outside the Citadel do each day?

Are they the reason the Accursed tried to kill him in the first place?

He dismisses that possibility immediately. No, the Starscourge may have given the immortal that unbelievable strength, but the way Ardyn had lashed out felt more like someone whose deepest secrets had finally been revealed. And yet…. “If you did not want me to know, then why say anything at all?”

There is a part of him that questions if he is deliberately trying to get himself killed by asking for answers that Ardyn does not want to give (or might simply not be capable of giving, what with the chorus of daemons in his mind). He dismisses that thought as well. Death might be a release at this point, and far more preferable than his current circumstances, but it would also be a betrayal of all that he owes his king. And Ignis is nothing, if not loyal to a fault.

But loyalty is not the same as blindness, and he braces himself for a caustic remark or another bout of violence, one which Ardyn may not be able to save him from this time. He is not so prepared for the man to reply, “You’re intelligent. You would have figured it out sooner or later.”

Ignis is not quite sure how to react to that, the compliment that still manages to sound like blame. Clearly Ardyn still does not like to be held responsible for his own actions, although to be fair, few people do. But fairness is a quaint concept indeed, when dealing with an immortal who would destroy the entire world for his own aims. Not that Ignis is particularly upset about that. After all, it is as Ardyn had said; he cares little for the fate of this world, if the cost of saving it would be the king that he had practically raised for the last sixteen years, the boy whose hand he had held for so many nights in this very room.

His hands tangle in the blankets, as even those quiet moments are fouled. For a horrible moment, he remembers not Noct sleeping against his shoulder as they laid side by side, but the violence that was inflicted on him – the hot agony of his broken bones and the darkness eating through his veins, the copper tang of his own blood from where his skin had been shredded open, the sound of his own shrieking as the immortal had raped him. The sheets may now be clean and his wounds healed, but that hardly changes what happened so recently, and for a moment he feels that irresistible, frantic need to run once again.

The feeling fade quickly, as resignation takes its place. He is too tired to indulge in such hysterics, particularly when running will help nobody, especially himself. Even if he could run, he will never truly escape; only death will free him of this nightmare. No wonder Ardyn seeks its cold embrace so religiously, even at the cost of the world.

But it is not the only thing that Ardyn wants. As tired as he is, it might be the first time that he can see things so clearly, without the fear or anger or _shame_ at what he has become clouding his thoughts. Which is why he is able to say, “I cannot give you what you want.”

Again, he waits. Again, Ardyn does not respond. He barely seems to hear the question, let alone acknowledge it. There was a time that Ignis might have been convinced that this was proof that Ardyn simply did not think that he was worthy of attention, but that was before the Accursed had defied the daemons to heal his wounds, rather than leaving him to die. That decision had cost the immortal dearly, but it is still not enough to change what he has to say.

“All the things you crave,” Ignis reiterates. “I cannot give you any of those things.”

Ardyn’s eyes snap towards him. “And what exactly do you think those things are?”

_This was supposed to be mine._ You _should have been mine_. It would be easy to write those words off as madness, but uninhibited and unleashed, they are the truest words that the Accursed has ever said. For so long, he has only really thought about what Ardyn was trying to take from him by making him agree to this contract, without considering how the immortal expected to benefit from it. Ardyn may have bought him cheaply, but that never meant the things Ardyn wanted from him had little value in return.

“Loyalty.” Ardyn orders him to do whatever the man desires, but his decision to do so has never come from allegiance to the immortal, but to Noct alone. “Intimacy.” He may permit the Accursed to take pleasure from him, and will say that he wants the man, but he will never mean it when the immortal’s mere touch horrifies him so. “Humanity.” Ignis finally sees the truth of the beloved healer that both humans and gods have tried so desperately to erase from history, but they both know that the human part of the Accursed died years ago, except for the few shreds that linger but hold no sway over the immortal’s decisions. “Forgiveness.”

“Not even after what has been done to me?” the question is mild, as if Ardyn is merely curious rather than demanding, but his displeasure is exposed by the way his eyes spark gold.

“No,” he replies. “You don’t deserve forgiveness, not after what you have done. You destroyed Insomnia and Niflheim alike, murdered the Oracle, manipulated Noct, and plunged the world into darkness. You owe nothing to other people, that much is true, but you have hurt so many in your machinations, mostly those who have nothing to do with what was done to you. Your pain does not justify their suffering or deaths. There is only so much you can blame on those who betrayed you, before your excuses lose all meaning.”

Ardyn shrugs, “What is your point, boy? I never asked for their forgiveness. I never wanted it.”

“But you asked for mine.” He waits for the Accursed to deny that, to once again label him a naïve child or arrogant fool. When he does not, he continues. “Why? You thought that once I figured out what had happened to you, that I would somehow forget what you had done to me? You think that because I understand the value of loyalty, that the fact you were betrayed by others would warrant absolution of your crimes? It is terrible what happened to you, there can be no doubt about that. And as you said, most anyone would have taken the same path as you did. But none of that means anyone is required to forgive you for what you have done. It does not mean that _I_ will forgive you.”

He does not flinch at the sound of Ardyn pushing the chair back, nor when the Accursed looms over him. It would be so easy for the immortal to push him down and force himself on him as he had so many times before, or to snap his neck as easily as the man had broken his wrist. But time enough for those things later, as Ardyn settles for grabbing his chin so that they must face each other, for better or worse.

“You were supposed to understand,” Ardyn hisses, but his anger is not quite able to drown out the entreaty. “You know that the gods are liars who care nothing for anyone. You know what humans are capable of. You _know_ that this world is not worth saving. Yet after all that, you still refuse to acknowledge that I was the one who was wronged?”

“I do understand,” he agrees quietly. “And I acknowledge that you were wronged. But you think having legitimate grievances-”

“Grievances?!” the Accursed snarls, his fingers digging angry bruises into Ignis’s jaw. “You call it a mere grievance, what I endured? I did everything they wanted, and still they turned their backs on me the first chance they had. I gave up my life, and then I gave up _death_ for them, and what did they do? They spat on me and turned me into _this_ , the very monster that they once begged me to save them from.”

He waits patiently for the anger and the _sorrow_ to die from the Accursed’s eyes, before he says, “Nevertheless. It does not justify what you have done. It does not entitle you to forgiveness for the choices that you made, and the lives that have been ruined because of you.”

Ignis must give credit where it is due, for Ardyn does not try to deny him anymore. The Accursed does not question his reasoning, nor does he try to change his mind. Instead, the immortal asks the very reasonable question, “If you will not give me what I want, then what use do I have for you?”

“None, I suppose.” It is the only answer that he can give, even if it might just get him killed.

The Accursed stares at him. Ignis can almost see the daemons that are behind those eyes, urging the immortal to tear him to shreds. He does not know how the healer has held them back all those years ago, and he certainly does not know why Ardyn would bother with restraint now. He has made it clear that he cannot offer what the man had truly bargained for, such that the contract between them might as well be void.

“At least you are honest,” the immortal finally says, although there is nothing in his tone that would suggest that is a _good_ thing. The man may have a point; Ignis could easily have lied, just as he could have told the Accursed that he forgave him. It is not as if he has not had plenty of practice saying things that he will never mean, just as the immortal has become used to his insincerity. But all that would have done was preserve the purgatory that they both find themselves in, and nobody could ever be satisfied by that. Especially not Ardyn Lucis Caelum, who had only wanted the love of his people and now finds himself the object of everybody’s revulsion. So maybe Ignis cannot offer the man forgiveness, but he can at least give him the honesty that he deserves. “It’s one of the reasons why I chose you.”

Ignis blinks, yet he is not certain that he is actually surprised by this admission. It seems that all pretense has been shattered, allowing them to speak to each other… not as equals, never that, but with an understanding that there is no need for lies any longer. That, really, their lies will not protect either of them anymore. “And the others?”

“You saw that I wanted death.” Ardyn looks away, staring into the distance despite the four walls that surround them, and the darkness that covers everything outside. “I am very tired of this world. Two thousand years, and kingdoms rise and fall, yet nothing changes. The gods are still cruel, the humans are shallow and stupid, and the daemons want only to purge this wretched world of all life. They live and they die, and all I can do is watch them get the one thing that I am denied.”

_Death is easy. Living with the pain is the hard part, especially when there is no end in sight_. “Anyone could have seen what you wanted.”

“Not anyone. Only you.” Then Ardyn is letting go of him, and before he can begin to understand what is happening, the man who should have been king says, “I release you.”

The entire world stops, and for a moment, he dares to feel that terrible, awful _hope_ again. The one he had quickly been forced to set aside because it was too painful to think about the possibility of this ever ending, not when the Accursed had seemed so determined to make him suffer as much as possible in the name of his king. Even now, he waits for the immortal to crush that pathetic hope and hurt him as he had so many times before.

As he himself had done to Ardyn, when he had sworn never to forgive him.

Yet the Accursed – who has already hurt him in so many ways – does not. Instead, Ardyn simply turns and starts to walk away, as if he has already forgotten him.

And Ignis should let him. He should take this unexpected mercy and leave, before Ardyn can change his mind. But even if the immortal does forget about him, Ignis is not so easily placated; he is already certain that he will never be able to truly face what has been done to him, and this abrupt severance will offer him no peace if he does not understand why it is happening. Without understanding, he will always live in fear that the Accursed will come back for him, to demand what he cannot give until there is nothing left of him. “Why?”

The man does not turn to face him. “It is as you said. If you will not give me what I want, then I have no use for you.”

“You could kill me. Is that not what the daemons inside you want? You could satisfy their cravings if only for a moment. Or-” he hesitates because he does not want to say it, the possibility that he fears far more than the finality of death, “-you could keep me.”

“Not for long. It was hard enough keeping the daemons at bay before they got a taste of your blood.” Ardyn laughs, and it is full of contempt. “It would not be long before both you and they got what you desired, that glorious, self-sacrificing death you still dream of. But it is not what _I_ want.”

“Do you even know what you want anymore?”

“Why don’t you just tell me, since you seem to know so much about me?”

It is Ignis’s turn to be silent, if only because he knows he does not need to say anything. Ardyn has already answered his own question. Even if he cannot forgive the man, he does understand him, and it is an understanding that goes beyond acknowledging a hidden past. He understands why Ardyn is the way that he is, and he can be sympathetic to what caused Ardyn to act the way he does, without having to forgive those precise actions. It might not be what the immortal had wanted, but it is something more than what he had before. And after two thousand years of nothing but the scorn and hatred of others, Ardyn can no longer afford to throw that small bit of compassion away to the bloodlust of the daemons within him, even if it more closely resembles pity.

He cannot remain silent forever though. Ardyn may have released him from his side of the bargain, but Ignis has made no such agreement when it comes to the immortal’s obligations. That is why he asks quietly, “And Noct?”

Ardyn stops. Ignis holds his breath, and even his bone-deep exhaustion cannot stop that prickle of fear that he has nothing with which to bargain for his friend’s life. He will (and perhaps already has) give everything up for his king, but what if the Accursed demands a new price for Noct’s safety? What if it is the one thing that he has already said that he cannot give?

“Your king will live as long as he stays in the Crystal,” the Accursed says finally. Because in the end, it is not only Ignis who needs Noct to live right now. For Ardyn to guarantee the death that the immortal wants so badly, the Chosen King must survive long enough to gain the power of the Crystal. “After that, it is up to the gods.”

Not if he has anything to do about it. But for now, he has bought Noct’s safety from Ardyn, and it is up to him and Gladio and Prompto to protect their king from fate itself. A formidable task, yes, but one that he will accomplish, no matter the cost.

“Your boy king,” Ardyn says abruptly, although he still does not turn to face Ignis. “You think he will make a better king than I?”

Ignis knows what Ardyn is truly asking by that question; even now, the Accursed wants to know why Noct is more deserving of his loyalty than the immortal. Even putting aside what Ardyn has done to him, the answer is easy enough. “Of course.”

“How?”

In a way, the immortal might have a point. There were reasons why the healer had originally been selected to be the Founder King, after all. Ardyn has proven himself to be quite the adept politician indeed, manipulating entire empires to do his bidding, even when it resulted in their own destruction. And Noct, by comparison? Even Ignis has to admit that his friend has never been interested in the political wrangling ( _the bullshit, Specs, just call it what it is_ ). And while King Regis had his reasons for prioritizing Noct’s happiness and childhood, it still means that Noct is not nearly as prepared for ruling as he should be.

But none of those things matter, compared to what has always been so clear to him.

“Because he never wanted to be king,” Ignis explains. “And for that reason, he never expected anything from the people he ruled. The loyalty you think you were due for the things you did – he never thought that way. Even bereft of a kingdom and people, he still performs his duties because that is what he was born to do.”

He doubts the answer will be satisfying to the Accursed. Not many things are, to the man who demands everything in recompense for what was taken from him. But it is the only one he has to give, just as honesty is one of the few things he can freely offer to the immortal.

Ardyn turns to look at him, before moving back towards him. This time, Ignis does not even bother considering the possibility of running, and simply sits there, watching the man approach. Although a contract no longer compels him to tolerate the Accursed’s touch, practicality does. He may have the will to resist, but he lacks the strength, so all he can do is remain perfectly still as the immortal runs a hand through the tangles of his hair.

Then he feels the press of lips against his forehead, and the soft murmur. “Would things have been different, if you were by my side?”

The Accursed does not wait for the response that he cannot give, a hand curling on the back of his neck to pull him ever closer before the immortal leans down to steal one last kiss from him. It is as unwanted as before, even though it is also different, softer and more permissive. He could easily yank himself away, but he doesn’t. Because what he feels is not just the usual fear and shame, but something akin to a deep connection being threaded back together, the frayed pieces knitting themselves into something unbreakable. The heartbeat of another begins to echo in his mind, and for a split-second, he thinks it is Ardyn’s, for the sound is so painfully familiar. But then he remembers that the Accursed no longer has a heart, and more importantly, there is only one other person who he is so intimately familiar with.

_Noct_.

Ignis breathes in, and when he does, he feels his king with him. In that instant, it is as his very soul brightens at the knowledge that his friend is still safe, still _there_. He nearly cries out in relief at having Noct back, at feeling complete and whole again, as if _he_ has been returned to his rightful place.

“A gift,” Ardyn explains quietly, drawing away for the last time. “From one would-be king to another.”

And if the fates are kind, neither of them will ever rule.

* * *

Once the Accursed’s footsteps have faded, and the darkness gone with him, Ignis drags himself from the bed. He does not bother trying to cover himself, as his clothes are tattered ruins that would do nothing to preserve his modesty. So instead, he makes his way to his own quarters, moving at what feels like a snail’s pace because he is forced to rely on the wall to keep his balance, his legs barely able to support his weight. Without Ardyn’s persistent threat to stand up against, he is now utterly exhausted, wrung dry by near-death and the healing alike but too close to freedom to let fatigue defeat him now. Even crawling might be faster than the rate at which he goes, but he refuses to resort to that.

He will never be getting on his knees again, if he can help it.

In his room, putting on clothes is a fresh new struggle, his fingers awkward to the point that he gives up on half the buttons. After a brief hesitation, he picks up a stack of books that he had taken from the library, and opens up the armiger. Despite having been separated from it for far too long, the rush of magic is familiar and comforting, and he quickly stores the books in it, along with the cracked picture frame of a life that he remembers almost as a distant dream.

He is not sure what to expect when he exits the Citadel. The darkness, perhaps, as it is a constant presence now as the days grow ever shorter. Daemons surrounding him, eager to destroy him now that the Accursed is no longer there to stay their bloodlust. Maybe even the Accursed himself, holding out a hand and telling him to go back, that their contract is not yet fulfilled.

What he ends up with is this. The sun, which has only just risen, although it will not be long before it sets. An empty stretch of road, through the city that he once called home. And the Regalia, gleaming and with nary a scratch, ready to take him wherever he chooses to go.

He has no idea how Ardyn got it here. Like so much that the Accursed does, it is unexplainable, and for once he decides not to ask questions but to simply accept it, just as he accepts that he will never be able to understand why the immortal left him this gift (or perhaps he does, in his own way. Perhaps he understands the immortal far better than he is willing to admit, even if it is the only reason why he is permitted to live).

The doors are unlocked, and the keys are in the ignition. More questions that will go unanswered, but he does not dwell on them as he reaches into the back of the Regalia and finds the case with his spare glasses. After going so long without them, he knows better than to slip them on as the sudden change in vision is liable to tire his eyes out. He doesn’t hesitate. It has been far too long since he could see the world clearly; any longer in that haze of ambiguity, and he might have forgiven the Accursed for what he has been turned into.

But Ardyn is the last thing he wants to think of, as he slides into the driver’s seat. He needs to move forward if he is to be of any use to his king, yet as his left hand takes hold of the steering wheel, he closes his eyes and permits himself a moment of weakness to remember.

For once, it is not the immortal that haunts his thoughts. It is Prompto, sitting at his side, if sitting is how one would describe the way he practically hangs over the side of the car to gape at whatever geological wonder they were passing by. It is Gladio, nose in his book yet still so alert of their surroundings, ready at a moment’s notice to yank their young charge into his seat. Because of course Noct liked to sit up high on top of the car, letting the wind ruffle his already unruly hair. Despite a position that practically courts death itself, his friend had looked more at ease than Ignis had ever seen him, as he watched the world pass him by.

It is a world that will now ask Noct to pay for it with his own blood, and for that reason, Ignis cannot allow himself to drown in those memories of such carefree times. There is too much at stake now, both for his king and for the world. His focus will forever be on the former, and if the latter happens to benefit from it… well, so be it then. Either way, he knows where his loyalties lie, and what he must do to fulfill the only promises that still matter.

He turns the car on and pushes onward, and never once looks back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hesitated to write this story because it felt like it was just being excessively cruel to Ignis, without having enough of a point to justify it. I don’t know if I managed to make it worth the suffering, particularly since any character revelations seem to come more from Ardyn’s end than Ignis’s. I also fear that most of this story is just a giant rambling conversation, as a lot of things that were supposed to be in it were lost in the shuffle, while other pieces of character development were completely unplanned for because the characters decided to dictate what happened. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who gave this story a chance and braved through it to the end. I know it is not an easy one to get through, so I appreciate it greatly. Thank you especially to those who left comments and kudos – it has meant a lot to me, especially since this was my first contribution to the fandom.

**Author's Note:**

> For shorter ficlets, deleted scenes, and babbling about writing (or lack thereof), I can be found at http://pikachumaniac.tumblr/com/.


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